Our Version of History
by Aria2302
Summary: When the events of Civil War are carefully averted, the Avengers never disbanded, the Sokovia Accords were signed, and Steve Rogers finds himself working to capture rogue enhanced persons and send them to the Raft. Not what he wanted, but it's the price he paid to protect Bucky. He's drowning, but so is Mab. (Steve/OC) follows AU of "Who is Alice Shaw?" and "Reaching in the Dark".
1. Two Cathedrals, Four Alarms

**Our Version of History**

_The world changed; time took a new path towards a better future but closed the door to one happy ending. Without Civil War, the Avengers never disbanded. The Sokovia Accords were signed by all. What happened next? Steve/OC, follows the WIAS/RITD AU._

* * *

An alarm goes off.

'_Good morning, Captain Rogers'_, a tinny voice calls through a small speaker. '_The car is coming to pick you up at eight fifteen to take you to the cathedral to avoid London morning traffic.' _

Already mostly awake, the man is quick to rise from the soft hotel bed, carding fingers through sleep-tousled hair. "Thanks, Friday," he answers the computer operating out of his phone.

'_You have missed messages,' _the computer reports.

"Play, please."

"_Oh Steve,"_ a warm woman's voice sighs through the recording. "_I'm so sorry about Peggy. I hope you don't mind some company, because we're about to get on a plane. I… I don't think you should be doing this alone. Call me, if you get this. Or I'll try you when we land. Or text me. Someone showed you how to text, right? Did I forget to-" _the message cuts off as the speaker runs out of time.

He sighs. "Next message."

An irritated man grumbles, sounding quite tired. _"Cap, pick up the phone; these roads are all wrong and we can't find the hotel, and I'm gonna kill Barnes if he doesn't stop kick-" _the caller abruptly stopped speaking, and the message grew muffled as he had to assume the phone got dropped.

He can hear arguing along the lines of '_kick my seat one more time and I'm deporting you'_ and smiles to himself. "Next message."

"_We found the hotel. Everyone's in one piece,"_ a calm but mildly amused woman reports. _"Meet you at the cathedral in the morning."_

* * *

An alarm goes off.

A very sleepy woman rubs at her face, trying to return to her dream. In it, she was dancing. In her dream, the sky was blue every day, and the buses always ran on time.

"Time to get up if you want time to shower before the service," a voice calls through a thin door. Without a reply, the knocking continues, more insistent now. "Mab, are you up?"

"I'm up," she calls, voice slightly muffled through her hands. She coughs, but tries to suppress the sound. She takes the first of her deepest shallow breaths for the day. She coughs again as her weak lungs protest.

"Do you…" the voice hesitates, "do you…need help or something?"

"I've got it," she answers. The woman stands slowly, keeping a grip on the bed in case the world goes blank. "Thanks, Uncle David."

"I can bring the chair up if you need it," the voice answers, trying to be helpful in the new and uncertain world.

"I don't need it until we go out," she answers, sitting up but holding herself steady by gripping the bed's headboard. "Not yet," she adds quietly to herself.

* * *

An alarm goes off.

A heavy hand slaps at the snooze of a clock radio, silencing the talk-show host's enthusiastic morning greeting. A sigh of relief in the darkness, and possibly returning to sleep, is cut short by a bedroom door opening and throwing harsh fluorescent light over the bed.

"Paul – you have to get up or you're going to miss the train." His wife seems angry with him this morning.

"I can sleep ten more minutes," he replies, pulling the covers over his head.

She pulls them down and away from his face. "_No, _you can't! You said it yourself; there's pre-shift training today and you can't miss that – if you get fired because you can't work the lift I _swear to God, Paul-"_

"Alright! I'm up!" he declares, giving in.

His wife seems less angry now. "There's coffee going in the pot, don't forget to take that new medicine the doctor prescribed-"

"I know, Janice-"

"-because you're so forgetful in the morning-"

"I know, Janice-"

"-and I don't want you dropping _dead_ on the subway!"

"I said I know, Janice!" he barks, and his wife leaves him to finish waking up, though leaving the door wide open to keep him from falling back asleep.

* * *

A sleepy mother wakes in the night.

She rolls over and pats the empty side of the bed, sighing and wishing her husband stopped working nights. But she is confused as she reaches across the bed, as an odd sensation touches at her hand. It almost tickles, like a spider caught along the sheets. She swats at it, and a burst of light hurts her eyes.

She cries out against the sudden brightness, shielding her face. She blinks against the light and shrieks in horror. Her curtains are on fire.

Someone pounds on the wall of the apartment building – her neighbors are so close, and the walls are so thin. _"Keep it down! Some of us are trying to sleep!_"

"Fire!" she yells back. _"Fire!"_

She leaps from bed, slipping her feet into the house shoes she keeps neatly tucked under the bed, but as she touches the doorknob, the thin hollow-core door bursts into flames. She recoils, holding her hand to her chest as if burned.

But it hadn't felt hot, she realizes. She reaches out slowly, taking hold of the doorknob. The flames licking their way up the board tickle her skin, like a delicate feather duster.

An alarm goes off.

* * *

A/N: Very rough introductions here, just a little bit of intrigue. I'm still working out bits and bobs and, you know, _the entire plot_, so don't expect an update any time soon. Mostly using this to see if there's interest in a Steve/OC story within the WIAS/RITD alternate universe.

Talk soon.

Ad Astra,

Aria


	2. A Burdensome Shadow

Moving carefully around the collection of unopened moving boxes in the little guest room, Mab gave her teeth a cursory brush and her face a splash of water, promising herself that she'd shower later. First, she needed medication, some food in her stomach, and a cup of coffee.

She shivered against the rough autumnal cold snap, pulling on a pair of thick socks with a bit of a stumble. The radiator in the corner groaned and knocked, complaining about the cold as well. Still adjusting to the massive change in living conditions, Mab missed the sunny breakfast nook in her mother's house, and the space-heater that lived under the table year-round. But Mab also missed more than just the house.

A nervous gray cat, still distrustful of the brownstone's new occupant, scuttled around the hallway corner as Mab opened the door, hissing and spitting in disapproval.

"Be that way," Mab grumbled. "I don't like you either."

Mab found her uncle poring over her treatment binder, flipping back through a series of post-it marked pages. "Good morning," she greeted softly, easing down into a seat at the kitchen island to catch her already shaky breath.

"Morning," her uncle mumbled. "Uh, I've got your medications set out right, I think…" he flipped through the pages again with one hand, pushing a cup of pills towards her. "I'm just trying to figure out what you can eat with them."

"Toast is usually safe," Mab suggested, accepting the hefty dosage of medications. She eyed the cup briefly, satisfied that the number and variety of colors looked correct.

David closed the binder with a grateful snap. "Toast I can do."

Mab took an offered glass of water to take her pills. "Are you meeting with the office soon?"

"I hope not, I don't have anything to show for the last month," her uncle admitted regretfully.

Mab tossed her head to swallow a few pills at once, making a sour face at the bitter taste of the last one. "I think they should give you some slack – you've been dealing with a lot this last week."

David grumbled in agreement, putting bread in the toaster to warm up. "Well, the next time you go into the office and see Mariah, you tell her that." He snapped his fingers in sudden realization, face brightening. "You know what?"

"What?" Mab obligingly asked with an amused smile.

"They should make you my live-in editor!" David exclaimed, pulling jams from the fridge to give her a selection for her toast.

Mab sniffed the open jam jar and scrunched her nose as she quickly replaced the lid. "Oh, believe me, it was suggested. But to need an editor, you need to submit more than one poem a month." She slid the jar off the edge of the counter and into the trash.

"It's worth a try at least," David argued, turning as the toaster dinged to get his attention. "Do you need anything while I'm out?"

"Yeah - let me write you a list." Mab nodded idly, pen scratching as she doodled in the corner of her paper to get the pen working. Like so many things in her uncle's house, even the pens spoke to a general feeling of deferred maintenance; a preoccupation with living in his own head, trying to push poetry out onto a page to exchange for goods and services. An artist who lived alone, who forgot that the world revolved around usefulness.

"What've you got there?" David asked, peering at the scribbles that had turned into words.

"Just scribbles," Mab mumbled, covering it with a hand.

David tugged the paper from underneath her hand, scanning the short phrase. "This is quite good – do you mind if I use it?"

_Cracks in the walls  
let in a foggy discontent  
muddled by burdensome shadows_

"Please," Mab waved a hand, blushing at the faint praise, "someone should get use of it."

Her uncle folded it with a hand and tucked the paper away. "What are you up to today? Some unpacking, maybe?"

"I've got the rest of that 'Quill and Hill' World War Two manuscript to get through." Mab ran a hand over her face. "I swear; it's ten percent typos." She turned the interrogation back on David with a raised brow. "Are you getting any writing done today?

"Well…" he avoided her gaze. "I'm going out today to… go talk… to some people."

"Uncle David," Mab pressed, "is everything okay?"

He sighed. "It's just with the funeral costs, and you moving in… I've just got to sort out a plan with the bank. It'll be okay; I promise. Just need to hang on until the estate settles."

Mab dropped her head. "I'm sorry."

"We've just got to get our feet under us again." David patted her hand comfortingly. "We'll both get by - your mother left very clear instructions." He coughed, eyeing the thick healthcare binder. "_Very_ detailed."

"Brevity was not her strong suit." Mab smiled wistfully. "I miss her," her voice cracked. "I feel ridiculous - a fully-grown woman saying 'I miss my mom'."

David nodded slowly, his face twisting painfully. "I miss her too. _They have their exits and their entrances _just doesn't seem to cover it."

"I didn't think she'd go before me, you know? Not with…" Mab gestured to her whole body, "_everything."_

"Ok, that's enough of that; you're not dying yet. I mean, everybody on the planet is dying because that's how living works, but-"

"I get it," Mab stopped him, standing. "I'm gonna get to work upstairs. If you make coffee before you leave, let me know." She retreated from the increasingly emotional conversation. Mab and her uncle hadn't spent much time together as she'd grown, but when her mother's health started to deteriorate he became more of a fixture. It was very sensible, moving in with an older relative who could be responsible for her incredibly complex care, but that didn't mean it felt right.

Mab took her time getting up the stairs but she was still out of breath at the top. The skittish grey cat growled at her from a dark corner, which Mab ignored. She was half-tempted to hiss in reply, but decided that would be a little too petty.

It took a little digging around in the tight space of the spare room to find the right box with her manuscripts for review, and another grumbling search to find her laptop. She opened two windows - one with her editing notes document, the other to a live news feed. Trapped as she so usually was indoors, she liked to keep an eye on the outside world whenever she could.

"_... backup quickly resolved afterwards. Fortunately there was enough space to transport the literal thousands of pounds of gear to the Port Authority, though training was significantly delayed. The Port Authority has not yet commented on the total impact on the city's disabled community. Back to you, Dan." _Mab fished her reading glasses out of the drawer of her nightstand, glancing at the screen and the never-ending drama of New York City's outdated transit system.

"_Thanks Chuck, we're taking you now to the East Side where, yes - you can see the newly operational Raft Transport Vehicles moving overhead. We reported earlier this week about the enhanced-initiated apartment fire in the upper west side, and now it looks like that person is finally being transported to the Raft." _

The Blonde co-host laughed. "_I'll sleep a lot better knowing they're out of the city."_

"As if you'd be caught dead above 35th street," Mab murmured, turning her attention to the manuscript in her hand. She thumbed past the chapters she'd already reviewed, searching for a page not yet marked by her signature green pen.

"_Ha ha, alright Susan; let's talk about the next big thing everyone is talking about - The Sokovia Accords, and what that means for the future of the Avengers; our heroes, or just another military operation?"_

* * *

Paul tried to sneak past his steely-eyed supervisor after clocking in, but was spotted immediately. "Gregson! You're late!"

"Sorry," Paul mumbled, turning, "missed my train."

His supervisor stared at him a little too long, like he was thinking but the act was physically painful. "Did you get the session last week on the new lifts?"

"Well-" Paul mumbled, stalling.

His supervisor spotted another driver at the clock-in station, barking out, "Anders - don't let me catch you clocking in for that follow-up course! You should have made it on time when I told you the first time! I ain't paying for laziness!" He turned back. "You were saying?"

"Yeah," Paul mumbled, "I got it last week, like you said." He'd just have to hope the new lift system was easy enough to figure out. His family couldn't afford hours of paid work lost.

His supervisor grumbled, chewing on a cigar without lighting it. He often complained - loudly and frequently - that New York had gone to hell in a handbasket for not letting people smoke inside and around workplaces anymore. "Well, clock in and get to work! Riders aren't going to pick themselves up."

* * *

**A/N:** Hello everyone! Thank you for the favorites, follows, and (my favorite) the reviews!

-Dancy dance - _I haaaaaate exposition_

I've spent some time coming up with a really amazing plot for this story, hopefully something to make you stop and think. I'm neck-deep in research at this phase and it's already fleshed out this story so, so much. It doesn't add a lot to the plot, specifically, but it does help everything (and everyone) feel so much more real. I'm super-stoked for this story.

My first few chapters are going to be on the shorter end as we introduce our new characters, and then it should pick up from there.

I love my reviewers! Lunatic4eva, Sanguinary Tide, Flours, ArganRose, huffle-bibin, Zayren Heart, SunflowerRose, x-EarthAlchemist-x, nekokairi, and Evilhyperpixie13!

**PLEASE REVIEW!**

Tell me an Avengers fanfic trope you love, and a trope you hate! (Love: love interest figures out our hero is a hero before they planned to tell the love interest. Hate: describing any male's romantic/love actions as "can barely control himself" as if that shit is somehow romantic. GTFO.)


	3. Human Resources

Just another type of muscle memory moved Steve through the steps of making coffee. It had taken a few attempts, but he'd finally figured out how to get the machine to work consistently. It thunked and grumbled and hissed, but eventually got into motion.

Out of habit, he picked up the glasses left in the sink to give them a rinse. The smell of slightly stale beer drifted up from the basin and Steve's thoughts took a sharp left turn.

_There is a tavern in the town, in the town.  
And there my true love sits him down, sits him down  
And drinks his wine as merry as can be  
And never, never thinks of me_

The coffee machine chirped to announce that his morning brew was ready, but Steve didn't hear it. He was surrounded by the sound of raucous laughter, drunken singing, and the pounding of leather boots on worn wood floors.

_Oh dig my grave both wide and deep, wide and deep  
Put tombstones at my head and feet, head and feet_

A hand on his shoulder startled him, but he managed to hide it well. "Stare at it a little longer, maybe it'll turn into wine."

He grinned at the little Russian. "I thought you were at the Barton Farm this weekend?"

Natasha quirked a perfect eyebrow, snagging a clean mug from the counter to help herself to the fresh coffee. "Its Monday, Steve. Weekend's over."

"Is it?" Steve shook his head and sighed. "How is Clint?"

"He's extending the house again." She shook her head as Steve offered her sugar for her coffee.

"And the-?" Steve's question was cut short by the shrill chime of his phone - a distinct signal that belonged to one General Ross, probably wondering why the tracker on Steve's jet still indicated he was at the Compound.

Natasha didn't comment as Steve checked his phone, confirming his suspicions before tucking it away again. She watched shrewdly, her opinion on the matter clear from the firm line of her lips.

"Don't," Steve warned tiredly.

"You're not the only one late for work." Natasha didn't seem in much of a rush, sipping at her black coffee.

"You seem very concerned," Steve said sarcastically.

Natasha shrugged, pouring the coffee into a travel mug. "What's he going to do; arrest me? I could break out of that place with a broken paper clip."

"_General Ross is requesting you answer his calls, Captain Rogers," _Friday chimed in.

"Tell him I'm on my way," Steve answered, pouring coffee into a travel cup of his own.

"You should have called Sharon after the memorial," Natasha commented, lifting herself with one hand to sit on the counter.

Steve hung his head slightly, the repetition of Natasha's insistence of finding him a partner getting very old. "I'm not ready for that, Natasha."

She seemed unperturbed. "Friends don't let friends mope all weekend."

Steve made sure the coffee pot was off, although he was certain there was no earthly way the compound could burn down because of a coffee pot left on too long. "I'm _working_, not _moping,_" he reminded her, grabbing his gear bag from the table.

"In your case, they're one and the same." Natasha hopped down from the counter, shouldering her bag as well. "If you don't find someone soon you'll be going stag to the wedding, and that's just embarrassing."

_Do not let the parting grieve thee,  
And remember that the best of friends must part, must part._

"It's not about me," Steve rebutted. " I'm happy to just go and see him be happy. He deserves it after everything he's been through." But that wasn't entirely true.

Achingly, Steve was envious of his old friend finding the peace he'd been denied for so long. He'd seen the horrors of their separation on both ends of his long sleep in the ice and it had been painful just to watch. But, he thought ruefully, at least they'd come to this happy point in the end. He'd come through to the finish line only to carry a casket with a lost love.

Steve felt almost cheated by time, but where his friend had paid for his happiness with seventy years of suffering and torture and blood, Steve couldn't help but wonder what price he would have to pay in the end to find his version of peace.

"If you like," Natasha offered, either oblivious to his internal conflict or well-aware and attempting to divert his attention, "I could put you back on ice for another seventy years. Might be easier to find you a date then."

* * *

Shying carefully around the sterile halls, fiddling nervously with the suppressor band around her wrist, she was looking for something that would help stabilize her emotional free-fall. She kept her head down as other inmates passed, looking instead to find guards.

The lights flickered overhead and she eyed them suspiciously. She trailed a hand along the damp wall but decided she'd rather keep her hands clasped tightly in front of her than deal with whatever mystery substances might soon start growing on the walls.

"Keep back!" A guard barked as she turned the wrong corner, finding herself at the intake gate. The wide frame was open as new inmates filed in, wearing the heavier suppressor collar she recognized too well - stronger, painful, the precursor to the little wristband that kept all the Raft's inmates powerless. The collars seemed to be popular for transport, though - she had seen enough new faces file past, eyes cast in red from the bright sensors so close to their faces.

She held up her hands, hoping she wouldn't get zapped for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, she figured, it might be her only chance to ask her question before lights-out. "Excuse me," she murmured, "Am I… going to get to call my family sometime soon?"

The guard made an incredulous face, nearly laughing. "Who exactly do you think you are?"

"She's an American citizen and you'll treat her with respect," a firm, commanding voice interrupted.

The guard turned with a slowness that looked like dread as all the color drained from his face. A size and breadth unmistakeable, further accented by a white star on his chest and, if nothing else, the red, white, and blue shield on his arm. A symbol of righteousness, of justice, of authority, and he was staring with blue-eyed fury at the guard.

"Sorry, Sir," the guard croaked.

"You're Captain America," she whispered reverently. The Captain turned his attention to her, and much of that righteous fury softened into concern as he stepped through the open gate without bothering to ask for permission. No one moved to stop him or the black-clad redhead who followed closely behind.

"What's your name?" he asked, moving to stand between her and the guard too dumb-founded to protest like some great tactical-clad guardian angel.

"Ginny," she said quickly, "Ginny Ellis."

"They treating you okay in here?" he asked seriously and it looked like he actually cared about the answer.

But he wouldn't want to hear that the suppressors itched like crazy, and with her fire powers suppressed she was always catching a cold in the dark, damp cells. He wouldn't want to hear that the food was terrible, and there was nothing to do at all during the day but pace from one end of the cell to the other, and the constant sounds of construction made it impossible to sleep.

"Yes," she responded, too quickly. "But do you think I could call my family?" It was all she cared about. She hadn't been able to get in touch with them since she had accidentally set the apartment on fire. Had her husband had any trouble getting the kids ready for school? Did he remember that Lenore wouldn't eat sandwiches if he left the crusts on? Did Bobby get his homework done every evening?

The Captain's smile was apologetic. "Not right now, but I'll see what I can do."

"Steve," the redhead warned under her breath, her eyes following some motion outside the gate. "Wrap it up; Ross is coming." Clearly, whatever rules he had broken by bypassing the gate might come back to bite him if he didn't move on soon.

"How about I bring some books the next time I come out?" the Captain offered. "Something different."

Ginny gave a little sigh of relief; something from the outside world would be a welcome escape. "That would be amazing, thank you, Captain."

"I'll check in," he promised, and his tone turned the promise into a warning as he shot a look at the guard. "_Soon._"

The gate closed after him, and Ginny stepped back as the guard sent her a - somewhat less aggressive - warning look. She could see the briefest patch of sky as the huge bay doors high above opened to give the helicopter access to leave. She took a deep breath, savoring the cold tingling in her lungs at the fresh sea air; so different from the smell when filtered through all the steel layers of the Raft to drip-drip-drip between panels in the dead of night.

"Back to your cell, 0-3-0-2; it's almost lights-out," the guard reminded.

"I'm going," Ginny promised. She stole her last breath of unfiltered air before the bay doors closed and the air stilled again, reminding her with a thundering finality of her place in the world as the Raft sank beneath the waves once more.

* * *

**A/N: **for the first time ever in my MCU AU, I didn't make you wait forever to sync up with the canon characters! Steve's new job sucks. Yes, he works for General Ross and the Raft, because that's where the accords decided to place him. Yikes.

Another short one here, but I promise they'll get longer. I wanted to establish Mab and Steve separately here so we didn't get too mixed up with all four of the POV's (Mab, Paul, Steve, Ginny), especially since they're all four very important.

Going through some rough stuff right now, so please send positive thoughts my way.

I love my reviewers! x-EarthAlchemist-x, Flours, and huffle-bibin!

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	4. The Shores of Silence

Mab wished that her doctor's office hallways were just a little bit wider. She only sort of noticed it when she was having a good day and could manage to get around with just a cane, but when she was in her sport-style wheelchair it became difficult to navigate the narrow halls. Sure, people jumped out of the way when she came around the corner, offering excessive apologies about 'being in her way', and holding doors open or offering to push her chair, but that in and of itself was exhausting.

Just once, she almost wished that someone would see her headed down the hallway and stand their ground. Maybe nod to her a 'one second, please' kind of motion and actually finish what they were doing before giving her the space to get around.

The social niceties required of her when someone went out of their way to be accommodating were just not worth it. More exhausting than pushing the chair around all day or standing in line at the store, a constant placating smile drained her of all reserves.

But, seen as a burden to society in the eyes of those too accustomed to fully-functioning bodies, that was her responsibility. Aside from the obvious, she was obligated to be perfect in all other ways they could conceive. Polite smiles, polite words, generally deferential, and never ever angry. She was not allowed to be angry.

"Let me get that for you!" a patient coming through the door she needed to exit offered, springing out of her way and holding the door open from the inside, unfortunately standing mostly in her way, and blocking the handicap door button that would have opened the door for her.

But Mab smiled gratefully, cheerfully adding "thank you!" as she barely managed to roll past him without crushing his toes. The corner of the door clipped her fingers as she failed to move them in time, taking a bit of skin from the back of her hand. A small price to pay.

Mab shook her hand to clear the tingles as she pulled up to the nurses' desk.

The nurse glanced at her briefly, sliding a sheet of paper within Mab's reach. "I've called the Cipro prescription into your pharmacy, and here are the orders for blood work. Do you need to schedule a follow-up appointment?"

"Yes, please," Mab smiled as she folded the lab orders into a square and slid it into the front pocket of her bag.

"Two weeks?"

"Three, please," Mab said, thinking about co-pays.

The nurse typed the change into her computer and handed Mab a reminder card. "Do you need me to call you a cab?"

The card joined her lab orders in Mab's bag. "No, thank you; I take the bus."

"Have a good day," the nurse said automatically.

"Thanks, you too," Mab supplied the standard reply, beating down any of her off-the-cuff responses that might elicit a genuine reaction. Burdens to society don't get to be funny, burdens should just smile and be polite and predictable.

Thankfully, the hallway and elevator were both empty and Mab got to enjoy a normal routine. The elevator car stopped just right at her floor without lurching up or down. She was able to move her chair smoothly, and all the buttons were at reasonable heights. The car stopped smoothly on the ground floor and met the arriving floor level just right. The doors out of the building had handicap buttons that still worked, giving Mab time to wrap her scarf neatly around her neck before braving the outdoors of New York City.

Mab was having a not-too-bad day. The bus arrived on time, and the wheelchair lift was one of the new ones so it was working pretty well. The bus driver knew the fast way of getting her chair clipped down, and no one grumbled about getting up out of the foldaway seats that made room for her.

Mab pulled a book out of the bag strapped to the back of her chair, conveniently covering the foldable handles in case anyone felt 'helpful' and grabbed at them, and chased her fingers along the pages until she found her slender bookmark saving her place.

Her ride was not-too-bad, almost pleasant, when the bus cruised to a stop and picked up two more passengers. The first took a few seconds to get his MTA card inserted right but got it eventually, and the second was clearly almost falling-down drunk at eleven in the morning.

Mab kept her eyes focused on her book, but kept tripping over a typo on the page that ruined her focus. Somehow, this made her less than invisible to the drunk who honed in on the easy prey as soon as the bus started moving again.

"Heyyyyyy meals on wheels! How's it goin'?" he laughed, managing to slur that as well.

Mab ignored him, keeping her eyes on her book and the typo.

He sauntered closer, leaning over to look at her book. "Looks real nice - can I borrow it when you're done?"

Mab bit the inside of her cheek, taking shallow breaths to avoid inhaling the strong smell of alcohol pouring from his mouth. Her lungs rebelled as a result, making her cough to force her to breathe.

"_Hey," _the drunk slurred, waving his hand in front of her face, "I'm _talkin'_ to you - you deaf, too?"

Mab kept her eyes lowered even as his fingers brushed against her nose, doing her best to play the good New Yorker and ignore it. _It's easy to pick a target that can't just get up and move to another seat. _She did not look up and try to make eye contact with anyone else on the bus; relatively useless, anyway. New Yorkers didn't interfere unless blood was shed, and even that was highly variable.

The drunk swore at her. "Frigid _bitch-"_

And someone interrupted by stepping into the narrow space between her and the drunk, forcing the inebriated man to step back or else get plowed directly into the side of the bus. "Oh hi - funny seeing you here!"

Mab looked up at the calm address, her mouth falling slightly open as a rebuttal died in her mouth, teeth clicking shut. She's only seen the second passenger out of the corner of her eye as he'd boarded but now she was getting a good look at the face hiding under a baseball cap and behind thick glasses.

He was definitely addressing _her_, and as she opened her mouth to inform him he'd _definitely_ mistaken her for someone else because there was no way in _hell_ he knew her, he gave her a very meaningful look from behind wide-rimmed glasses. The man, whose face she knew without any possibility of mistake and even around that terrible disguise, had positioned himself between her and the rambling drunk on purpose.

She was being rescued.

"Oh, hi!" she greeted with too much enthusiasm, trying to play along. "Funny seeing you here, yeah!"

He glanced sideways at the drunk, who seemed too intimidated to try and shove his way back towards Mab. He gave her another meaningful look. "Are you headed to the library, too?" _Do you need help?_

Mab could play along better now that the initial shock had worn off. "I am, actually." _Yes, please._

He nodded as if giving it measured thought. "I'll keep you company if you don't mind. I know how hard that thing can be to get on and off the bus." _Do you need me to do something?_

Mab shook her head. "I've got the routine down by now, you just stand there and look pretty." _You're doing great._

He smiled. "You know, I thought I might be mistaking someone else for you, but then I said to myself: 'Steve, you've known her for a long time'." _My name's Steve._

Mab smiled, thinking to herself: _Oh, I know_. "Well, there's only one Mab in a flashy wheelchair."

Steve pulled the yellow cord to alert the driver to their stop and waited patiently as the driver unclipped her chair. Mab hadn't thought too much about how long the whole process took until that moment when she had someone waiting on her.

Steve exited the side door while Mab slowly descended to the curb and had come up to the front before her wheels ever touched concrete. _Chivalry isn't dead, _Mab thought, _it just got put on ice for a while._

"Thank you," Mab sighed as the bus pulled away from the curb. "I really appreciate you stepping in."

"Steve," he introduced again, holding out a hand.

"Mab," she replied, wiping the tire-dirt of her chair off on hands onto her jeans before taking his hand. "I hope I didn't mess up your plans for the day."

He tucked his hands in his jacket pockets. "Not at all - I'm picking up books for a friend."

_This is kind of wild,_ Mab thought. "Well, I appreciate it. Have a good one," she said as she turned away, headed for 42nd street.

"You're not going inside?" Steve asked, following only a step.

"Wheelchair access is around on the 42nd street side," she explained patiently.

His ears turned a little red. "Oh, sorry, I-"

"Please don't apologize," Mab interrupted sharply, even as she plastered on another friendly social smile. She simply couldn't stand hearing any more apologies, especially not from _him_. "You didn't know. It's fine." She rolled forward and back a bit, a fun motion that usually distracted people out of whatever conversational rut she was suffering through. "You have a good day, Steve."

"Thanks. You, uh… you too." He waved.

Mab thought for a moment about either thanking him for his service or acknowledging his status overall but decided against it. He deserved to be invisible sometimes, too. He wasn't wearing fake glasses and a baseball cap because he wanted to be fawned over on public transit.

She'd feel bad later about being short with him, but that was a problem for future-Mab. Present-mab was getting tired of human interaction and social niceties and needed a new book to distract herself. Something well-edited so she couldn't be interrupted by typos.

Mab chuckled under her breath as she picked up speed to better negotiate the wheelchair ramp. What was Captain America doing on public transit, anyway?

* * *

Steve's neck reminded him that he'd been staring up at the ceiling for a little too long as he stood in the library's grand entrance. It was exactly the distraction he'd been hoping for. The compound felt cramped at the corners, and the empty tower felt too… empty.

Tony had offered him a range of cars to choose from for his 'wild joyride in the city', but Steve honestly just preferred the bus. There were more buses and trains available now than when he was a kid, but it was still basically the same. Smelled the same, anyway.

The public library was also still the same. A little cleaner on the inside than he remembered - no more cigarette smoke adding a film to the upper surfaces. It was nicer this way.

Steve sighed and fished a slip of paper out of his pocket - he'd made a list of books that might be a nice escape for Ginny Ellis, and he should probably get around to finding them.

The library was a comforting maze with levels that didn't get more confusing or labyrinthian the deeper he explored. There were no safety gates and guards with oversized rifles and prisoners with defeated expressions. Instead, there were computers, and study alcoves, and rows upon rows of carefully preserved books.

Everything in its best place, sorted, aligned as tightly as military ranks. Steve traced the nearly identical labels, digits increasing and decreasing to provide a coded roadmap to knowledge.

Maps led to plenty more than just knowledge, Steve thought. _We've got thirty-five miles of unmapped territory between us and the nearest forward base. _He could taste the evergreen air, smell the gun oil. He missed the certainty of the older times; the assurance and clarity of it.

"Excuse me," a voice prompted, "can I get around you?"

Steve jerked out of his memory violently, almost dropping the books in his arms. I'm so sorry," he apologized profusely, stepping to the side.

The voice interrupting his distraction was immediately familiar - the handicapped young woman from the bus. She nearly skimmed his trousers with the black and yellow wheelchair as she rolled past, giving him a wry smile. "You apologize a lot for things that aren't your fault?"

Her question, sharp but not biting or vicious, carried a taste of that vintage wit he missed from the old commandos. "Just how I was raised, ma'am."

"Sure do love being called 'ma'am'. Makes me feel all youthful and spry." Mab glanced at a slip of paper, tracing the air with her finger as she counted the numbers in reverse. Her face fell as her finger traced higher, and finally completely out of her reach.

"Which book can I get for you?" Steve asked.

"No, I can-" she started to say.

Steve glanced at the book's call number, clearly visible on her slip of paper at his angle, and grabbed the book from the shelf. "It's okay to ask for help, you know. " He glanced at the cover. "I really don't know anything about poetry," he said as he handed her the book.

Dark anger shadowed her face, but it was swiftly replaced with a practiced banal smile that completely failed to reach her eyes. A muscle on her jaw tightened, revealing the anger hiding behind the mild upturn of her lips that pretended to be friendly.

_Uh-oh_. Somehow, he'd said something very, very wrong.

"Thank you," she said slowly, dangerously, even veiled in a smile, "for your help." She looked down at the book he'd handed her.

"I said something stupid, didn't I?" Steve asked bluntly. "It's amazing how quickly I can put my foot in my mouth around women."

The fake smile fell from her face as his comment drew her attention upwards again. Her surprise morphed into a smile, a real one that twisted her mouth into a sly grin. She leaped on the opportunity to make a joke. "What's amazing is that you can reach; it's so far away."

Steve laughed, and someone in the next aisle over shushed him angrily. "_Sorry,"_ he whispered back.

"Well, you either 'get it' or... you don't." Mab held up the book. "Poetry, I mean." A blue cover promised poems about the sea.

Steve crossed his arms, looking up at the wide selection of books. "Any suggestions where I could start?"

"Well, if you don't mind having your guts ripped out by a short poem, then Neil Hilborn is a great place to start." Mab rolled backward a bit, reaching down to grab a book with a coiled snake on the cover.

"Thanks?" he said cautiously, adjusting his fake glasses.

"You're allowed to say 'no, thanks', by the way," Mab said, withdrawing her proffered book slightly.

"No," Steve said hurriedly, tugging it out of her grip, "I wouldn't have asked."

"Really?" Mab raised an eyebrow.

"No, ma'- _Mab_." Steve course-corrected.

"And here I was thinking you called me ma'am because you'd forgotten my name." She rocked forward and back in the chair like Steve might see most people shift from foot-to-foot. "It was nice meeting you, Steve."

"Can I walk you out?" he asked automatically, wincing as he tripped over severely-outdated mannerisms.

"I think I know the way, besides," she grinned, and Steve couldn't help but smile with her, "I can always follow my tire tracks back if I get lost."

"Yes ma'am," he agreed, but corrected a little too loudly: "Dammit - _Mab!_"

"_Shh!" _the angry patron in the next aisle hissed at him.

"Yeah, Steve; where are your manners?" Mab agreed, pressing her index finger to her lips as her eyes sparkled with laughter before she vanished around the edge of the aisle.

Steve sighed in resignation. He could defeat an army of aliens from space but not the rules of the library. He tapped his selected books on the edge of a shelf, smiling in spite of himself.

* * *

Paul pulled the bus up to the stop in front of the New York Public Library and opened the doors as the bus crouched down to make the step up easier. He saw the girl in the wheelchair waiting near the back of the pack rather than at the front like she was supposed to be.

He grimaced; he'd been hoping to get through the shift without having to work the new lift system. His luck was pretty bad that day, it seemed. Paul got out of his seat to flip up the adjustable seats and make room for her chair. Some old man grumbled about losing his seat but stopped when Paul shot him a dirty look.

He took a deep breath as he sat back in his chair, both hands on the lift controls. It seemed fairly straightforward and almost identical to the last system. He just had to push the red button and twist there… and the lift slowly extended from the front door, reaching for the curb.

Immensely proud of himself, Paul's smile slipped as the young lady stayed on the curb, looking back at the library with an amused grin on her face.

"You getting on?" Paul asked, doing his best to be patient.

"Yes, sorry," she turned, face flushed. She rolled her black-and-yellow sport-style wheelchair onto the lift panel and grasped the handles on either side.

_Okay, so… green button to lift it? _Paul guessed. The mechanics ground against each other in complaint as Paul fudged with the controls, switching the controls to work in the correct direction as fast as possible. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled as she rolled into the main aisle.

"No problem, thanks for picking me up." She beamed a warm smile, and Paul felt a little better.

"Let me scan that for you," he offered. She surrendered the subsidized pass and he scanned it in, barely glancing over to make sure it went through before he followed her to the side of the bus to strap her chair down for the ride.

* * *

A/N: When was the last time I did a legit MeetCute? The answer to that is… 2016. Steve thinks fake glasses and a hat are enough to be a real disguise. Buddy…your face is all over everywhere. Mab recognized you instantly. Get a better disguise.

I've been frustrated by this story for a minute, and actually sat down and completely rewrote my outline. I've done it before in stories that I pitch a chapter and rewrite from scratch when it gets frustrating (most notably, RITD's "escape velocity"), but this was the first _total plot overhaul_ I've ever done. The plot is much smoother now, and though there's a lot of work to do I feel like I've got a solid footing to give you something good and satisfying to wrap up Steve's version of history (his AU, lol).

I'm aaaaaaalmost done with my Yu Yu Hakusho fanfic trilogy, and then I'll be able to focus on one character at a time.

I love my reviewers! kade32, LisaPark, Flours, huffle-bibin, and Sulia Serafine!

**PLEASE REVIEW!** This story is hard and reviews are encouraging.


	5. Coffeehouse

Ginny sat on top of a table in the center of the dining hall, chewing on her thumbnail and watching the guards sidle nervously around the scorched steel that used to be a catwalk.

"Ginny." She turned her head just a shade to look at the slender, olive-skinned man that sat down on the table's long seating bench.

"Hey, Lukas," she replied idly. Not quite a friend but more than an acquaintance, Ginny was used to sharing dinner conversation with the shadow weaver. Lukas scared the guards, as even with the suppressor around his wrist he still seemed to leave rooms a little darker when he walked in.

Lukas tossed his head at the pair of jumpy guards watching over the poorly supervised exercise time in the dining hall. They would have much preferred the security of a guard tower, but it was currently doing a very good impersonation of a smoldering heap of metal. "They're saying it was you or Rodriguez."

"Wasn't either of us - look;" she gestured, tracing the shape of the exposed wires running around the upper perimeter of the room and leading to the shape that was once a guard tower, "see the discoloration in the casings?"

Lukas squinted. "What about it?"

"Electrical short started the fire - I'd bet my dinner on it."

"How'd you know that?" Lukas asked, sounding vaguely impressed.

Ginny shrugged demurely. "Met my husband at trade school. We're both electricians."

"You don't look like an electrician." Lukas scratched at the peeling paint on the table. "You look like a soccer mom."

"I am a soccer mom. Want to see my stretch marks?" Ginny lifted the edge of her blue sensor top and Lukas coughed a laugh.

"Oh-three-oh-two!" a guard barked and Ginny shot to her feet.

It took physical effort not to scratch at her wristband as the guard approached, shock-rod in hand. "Suppressor check."

Ginny held out her wrist for his inspection. "It's working just fine."

"Did I ask you your opinion?" he snapped, still about a foot too far away to properly check that it was functioning. Ginny's powers had never pushed beyond the supressor's limiter, but something about the nature of her abilities gave the guards pause. Some fear of dying in a horrible fire, she guessed.

"Don't you want to check my suppressor?" Lukas asked sweetly.

The guard ignored him. "Don't start with me, seven-three-nine."

"Who's starting anything? Maybe I just like talking to you, Miller." Lukas reached out a hand to caress the guard's shoulder. He just seemed to love playing around, even though it could get him a warning shock if he wasn't careful.

The guard whipped out his tasing rod, the crackle of energy suddenly the only sound in the room. "I will fucking put you down, Russo."

Lukas's expression grew dark, all the casual flirtation turned to outright malice. "You touch me with that thing and it'll be three minutes of hell for you before backup bothers tromping down the hall."

"Are we all friendly?" The little Russian walked up to the conversation with his hands swinging casually at his sides. Two more prisoners walked with him - the only other Russians on the Raft, and they always moved with Ivan Volkov. Ginny hadn't had enough conversations with him to find out what his powers were, but she had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with mental control.

"Everything's just fine here, Mr. Volkov." Ginny almost hoped that Ivan didn't have any powers, but had managed to convince the government that intimidation prowess alone was his superpower.

"That is good. I would hate to see Miller relieved of duty missing fingers." There was nothing about the Russian that was particularly threatening; he was under average height for a man and wasn't made of muscle like the meatheads that followed him around. Faded blue eyes the color of old farmer's denim never seemed to sharpen or grow angry and the wrinkles in his weathered skin formed friendly crow's-feet around his eyes. He'd somehow managed to survive Russia's attempts at creating enhanced-persons with his good humor intact.

"Are you threatening me?" the guard balked at the idea.

The older man didn't respond to aggression. "Of course not. In fact, I just said I would hate to see you lose fingers. What part of that was a threat?" He looked far too comfortable in the blue and gray uniform littered with sensors; like it was an outfit he'd chosen that morning and not mandatory.

The subtlety was lost on the Lieutenant. "I'm shutting down the dining hall."

"That sounds like a strong decision, Miller. I'm sure they'll be promoting you to Captain soon enough." Ivan spoke with the accent of someone who has worked very hard to get rid of the accent of their old country but had failed to properly work out all of the kinks.

The guard wasn't sure what to make of that.

"Why don't you just suck his dick, Ivan?" Lukas drawled as the guard retreated, running relaxed fingers through his long hair.

"Lukas Russo," Ivan turned a disappointed expression on Ginny's friend, "have you ever played a game of chess in your life?"

"I prefer Yahtzee." Lukas gave his suppressor band an irritated wiggle, like trying to unstick a decorative bangle bracelet from the wrong spot on your forearm. It was a commonly shared motion among prisoners of the Raft; they itched unbearably when their inner workings acted against powers.

The three loudspeakers above screeched as they synced up to a guard's walkie. "_Disperse, or you will receive a warning shock."_

Lukas stood smoothly, pushing back long hair at the temples with both hands. "That's us, darlings."

Ivan rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his left hand together, like someone testing the texture of salt. He gave Ginny a warm smile as he twitched his suppressor wrist irritably. "Have a pleasant day, Mrs. Ellis."

"You too." Something about the Russian's attitude just drew a respectful tone out of people, and Ginny certainly did not intend to get on his bad side. She'd never seen his bad side, and all evidence pointed to him not having one at all, but she didn't want to find out either way.

She knew there was at least another hour left in their mandated exercise time so GInny decided to take a walk around the big loop.

The _drip-drip-drip _of water was never-ending. A prison submerged in the sea had no hope of being waterproof forever, so there was always the torturous _drip-drip-drip_.

The Raft had two loops the prisoners were allowed to wander mostly unattended. The little loop - or inner loop - contained most of the cell units; five or six rooms to a pod that shared something like a central room, but were otherwise locked off from each other when exercise time was over or during lights-out.

_Drip-drip-drip._ Ginny skirted around a drip, not interested in the slightly greenish liquid oozing from the ceiling panel.

The big loop - or outer loop - was wider and quieter, but you had to run at a dead sprint back to your cell if you accidentally wandered too far from your cell unit and the guards called for a ten-minute lock-up warning. It was the only time you were allowed to run.

_Drip-drip-drip. Tap, tap tap. _Ginny paused, listening to the odd echo through the metal grating. She craned her neck to see around the gently turning halls of the big loop, distant sparks casting staccato shadows.

_Drip-drip-drip. Tap. Tap-zap!_ The popcorn collection of electric arcs finally combined into a bright flash of light as the circuit overloaded and exploded.

The hall fell into darkness.

_One. Two. Three. Four. _Ginny counted internally, waiting for the emergency lights to kick on.

_Five. Six. Seven - _the red emergency lights kicked on and Ginny screamed as a broad figure appeared in front of her. Bad reflexes shot her hands up in front of her face as if that would help at all, and the suppressor on her wrist made her skin tingle fiercely as her powers tried to react for her.

"Mrs. Ellis?" the figure asked, a familiar star-and-stripes shield lowering slightly to reveal a familiar face!

Ginny breathed a heavy sigh of relief, pressing a hand to her frantically beating heart. "Steve! Oh - er, sorry, Captain."

"Steve's fine," he offered a kind smile as he returned the shield to whatever magnetic switch kept it adhered to the harness system on his back. "What are you doing this far out?"

"We're allowed back here," Ginny defended.

"I know that," Steve replied slowly. He seemed to sense her discomfort and changed the subject. "This happen a lot?"

"Brown-outs?" Ginny hesitated. Would she be getting someone in trouble if she was honest? Did she care? "It happens a lot. Every time someone comes or goes, a little seawater gets in and, well…" Ginny gestured widely. "Electricity and water don't mix."

"How long should we expect it to last?"

"Twenty to thirty, maybe? That's about how long it takes them to find, dry, and reset the right breakers."

"I'm glad I ran into you, actually." The Captain reached into a pocket and pulled out three books, a little worn around the edges from being stuffed into a pocket, offering them to Ginny. "I didn't know what you liked so I shopped around a little."

"I honestly thought you would forget immediately," Ginny admitted with an open smile, gratefully accepting the books. She kept her smile plastered firmly as she saw they were a little outside of her usual reading selection - poetry, science fiction, and some short novella. He'd tried, and that meant the world to her.

Ginny flipped through the books, holding them as close as she could reach to one of the dim red lights on the wall. "My god... this stuff is depressing," she said. "_If I were somebody else, I think I would still be mentally ill. It is impossible to imagine a color you have not seen."_

"Oh - I think that one's mine, actually." Steve smiled apologetically. "Neil Hilborn?"

Ginny checked the cover and he was correct. "All yours, Cap." She surrendered the book and Steve flipped to the poem she had just been reading.

It hurt Ginny a little to look at the Captain. Time-skips notwithstanding, she was probably older than the soldier. He couldn't be more than, what, thirty? Thirty-five at most? Her knees already felt ancient at forty-three, and the cold and damp air of the Raft didn't help much.

As tired as any soldier returning home, the sad politeness just made Ginny want to invite him to her dining table, sit him down between Bobby and Lenore, and let him relax a little. He was a good boy, just like her Bobby. She would bet her dinner he took after his mom, just like her boy.

She returned the favor of changing the subject. "What brings you around to my neck of the woods?"

"Transport. The enhanced made the Secretary nervous so I was asked to assist."

"Don't all of us make them nervous?" Ginny asked curiously.

Steve grinned ruefully. "Let's just say he made them extra-nervous." He lowered his head. "Did they ever let you call your family?"

"Briefly. But, yes." Her husband had cried on the phone. Her daughter hadn't.

Before he even asked the question, Ginny knew from the apologetic look on his face what he was going to ask. "Can I ask - you don't have to answer, but-"

Ginny interrupted, doing her best to keep her tone warm; like when Bobby had broken her grandmother's vase but didn't try to hide it. "I set my family's apartment on fire in my sleep."

"I'm sorry." He sounded earnest. "Was anyone hurt?"

"Just my curtains," Ginny joked. "And my bedroom door. Only cost about a hundred and fifty to fix. So I know what your next question is going to be - what am I doing here, right?"

Steve nodded, smiling apologetically. "I'm that easy to read, am I?"

Ginny shook her head, putting the books into her pocket. "It's everyone's next question."

The lights switched from emergency red to the usual hazy, poorly-cleaned halogens. The Raft's speakers screeched with a warning. "_Lock-up in ten. I repeat, lock-up in ten."_

"That's me," Ginny tried to say casually, stretching her knees. "Gotta run." She was already losing the baby weight she'd never quite managed to lose after she'd given birth to Lenore, no matter how many diets she'd tried. It turns out incarceration was a pretty effective diet.

"Right, yeah," he agreed, seemingly having forgotten that she was a prisoner here. "Stay safe. I'll get those back from you when I visit again."

"You get something to eat, you hear me? You're looking awful thin." Ginny chided, and Steve laughed; the desired effect. Ginny couldn't make her own situation any better, but she was getting a feeling the Captain was in oddly the same boat. She added, jogging backward, "Just for the record, I prefer historical nonfiction!"

* * *

Steve leaned back on the sofa, tilting his head to rest on the back and release a little of the tension that had built in his neck. For all the time he spent sitting on jets, helicopters, and other military transports, all he wanted to do at the end of the day was just sit down. Sit down or punch something. It varied.

Wide windows open to the late summer breeze, the sound of crickets and evening birds provided light chorus for the cheerful conversation rumbling in the kitchen. Vision insisted that he'd prepared the recipe _exactly _as instructed, while Wanda assured him that she would fix it to make it edible.

Something cold and damp tapped his shoulder, making Steve lift his head. A beer, offered by Tony. "Rough day at the office?"

"You could say that," Steve said, taking the beer. It wouldn't do anything and they both knew it, but the symbolism was appreciated.

Tony cracked open a bottle of water, sitting on the opposite armrest. "I hear they got the venue"

Steve nodded. "Thanks for making that call to the gardens. I know Alice appreciates it."

Tony shrugged it off. "Don't mention it. Pep's been bothering me to donate more to offset our taxes."

The peace lasted a good two minutes. Steve could feel it fade as Tony glanced down at the empty bottle before lobbing it towards a bin.

Tony missed and made a face. "So, did you have fun with the Aztec?"

"Is that what they're calling him?" Something behind Steve's eyes hurt but he resisted the urge to rub at his temples.

"You know the news - love their nicknames." Tony gave Steve an appraising look. "If I ask why you look like someone dropped the Stars and Stripes, will you brood more or less?"

Steve sighed. If he avoided the question Tony would just pry more. "It's not how I thought it'd be. No - it's exactly how I hoped it _wouldn't_ be."

"We don't get to call the shots anymore - we don't _have_ to call the shots anymore," Tony emphasized, "and that's a good thing. A pinch of oversight keeps the…" he paused, considering, "the Ultron away?" He shook his head. "That's definitely not right, but you get the idea."

"But we're still stuck holding the bill." Steve looked at his friend. "Doesn't that bother you?"

Tony stood, shoving one hand in his pocket and pointing at Steve with the other. "I'm gonna get Ross to give you some vacation days. You're looking a little pale - too much time spent in that overgrown submarine."

Steve clenched his hands together. "It's not - Tony, some of them have done nothing at all; just turned up with powers at the wrong time."

Tony appraised him. "Would you rather it be Barnes in there? Or Wanda? What about Alice?"

Steve's brow furrowed as he clenched his hands tighter in anger. "This isn't about them."

"Isn't it?" Tony pressed. "You signed to keep them off the Raft, and now you don't like paying the bill? I hate to break it to you, Cap, but this is how the world works."

Natasha slid between them, setting down a tray of discs that looked mostly like cookies on the coffee table. "Okay, boys; I think that's enough for one night."

"It didn't use to be like this," Steve thought out loud as Tony drifted off towards the kitchen.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "It's always been like this; you just didn't have to see it."

"Is it naive to hope that we'll reach a point where everything works itself out?" Steve rubbed at his eyes now. "Or are we just going to keep making the same mistakes over and over?"

Natasha made a face. "What would that even look like?

"What would what look like?" Sam asked, climbing over the back of the couch with a bag of chips in one hand.

"World peace," Natasha said.

"Can we talk about something more realistic?" Wanda asked, sitting at the end of the coffee table on a low chair, "like the return of dinosaurs or something?"

Steve had been born into a war. It had gobbled up all the young men of the world and fallen into slumber. It had awoken when he was a man and consumed another offering. Again and again, war and destruction woke and consumed all the happiness in the world, all the good and honorable people.

It always left the world more afraid. None of the lessons that needed to be learned seemed to stick in place no matter how vehemently the survivors declared it was needed.

Steve smiled as his friends laughed over Vision's insistence that dinosaurs could not, in fact, survive peacefully in the current climate with limited appropriate ecosystems and resources.

Natasha made eye contact with Steve, raising an eyebrow with an unspoken question.

Steve shook his head slightly and looked down at his half-drunk beer.

_It is impossible to imagine a color you have not seen._

* * *

A/N: I absolutely love this chapter and I hope you do too. My husband shooed me into my home office to go write one evening and out of that came Lukas Russo and Ivan Volkov, as well as one other prisoner that I'm going to introduce later.

My outline for this story is so, so long. It touches on a lot of really interesting ideas that I've barely, rarely, or never at all seen in fanfiction. It's this huge beast that's only possible because of all the writing practice I've spent the last five years accumulating.

Hope you all are somewhere safe during these strange times. **I love my reviewers! **Huffle bibin, cHoCoLaTe-RuM, Flours, XEarthAlchemistx, and nekokairi!

**PLEASE REVIEW! **OVOH has my full attention at the moment and that's weirdly rare. Reviews make me write faster!


	6. Response to Error

Summer seemed to have yielded its final battle to autumn, letting in a surprisingly cold snap that had left a series of now-dead bugs on the windowsill woefully unprepared. Mab wrapped the cardigan tight around her middle, tracing the shape of the banister before bracing the stairs.

"Shit!" she stumbled, ankles all mixed up as a gray ball of fur wiggled and ran around her feet, batting at one with five sharp razor blades. Her uncle's gray cat hissed angrily as it retreated to the shadows, spitting threateningly for good measure.

"Your cat hates me," Mab grumbled as she slid into a seat at the kitchen island, accepting the offering of her morning medication and a warm cup of coffee.

David lifted a plate, offering scrambled eggs. "She hates me too."

Mab shook her head, turning down the eggs. Her stomach wasn't up for it this morning. "Then why keep her?"

David shrugged, adding the eggs to his plate. "Because she's my cat? I don't know. She's always been here, and it would feel rude to kick her out." He leaned over the counter, shoveling eggs into his mouth even as little bits of it got caught in his beard.

Mab's face twitched in a vaguely disgusted look but she managed to hide most of it. "Has she ever let you pet her?"

David snorted at the idea. "Christine doesn't like being looked at, you think I'm going to try to touch her?"

"I think at this point she's not really your cat; you're more like her jailer." Mab wrapped her cardigan tighter; trying to close a gap over her collarbones that seemed to be letting all of her heat from bed disperse too quickly.

"Are you cold? I can turn up the heat."

"I'm fine."

"I can make some toast?"

"_David_," Mab snapped, "Just-" she took a deep breath before continuing, "what do you want, Uncle David?"

Her uncle pressed his palms together, eyes shining. "I have an idea."

"Oh no," Mab groaned, looking up at the ceiling and silently praying for strength.

"It's a good one!" he defended.

"David, not again."

"No, I did the research this time, it's real."

"I'm not saying you didn't-"

"So just listen!"

"Alright," Mab leaned back, pulling the coffee close, "I'm listening."

"Okay," David started, snapping his fingers a few times and shuffling through a pile of papers on the counter, "okay…"

"Some time today?" Mab pressed.

"Got it! Okay - so, New York is revitalizing its Poet Laureate program; they got a new endowment but the applications close today."

Mab tilted her head, confused. "And you're thinking of applying?"

David beamed. "No, I think _we_ should apply. Two applications are better than one!"

Mab's face fell flat. "You're kidding. You have to be kidding. I'm an editor, not a poet."

"You _are_ a poet," David insisted, "you have a Masters-"

"_David!_" Mab yelled, slamming her coffee back down on the counter, cracking the handle. "Shit," she swore under her breath, "I'm sorry."

David's face fell. "Let me," he said, taking the broken mug and leaving a dish towel on the spilled coffee.

"I just… I don't have the spoons for it. I've got like…" she counted on her fingers. "I've got like… six spoons' worth of mental energy to spend today, and like fifteen in errands that I have to run this week, not to _mention_ my meeting with Mariah-"

David smoothed his beard with one hand. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Good luck. I really hope you get it," Mab encouraged.

David pivoted ideas, trying to make up for it. "If you're feeling tired, Andrea's instructions said I should give you-"

"I'm going upstairs now." Mab stood up, abandoning her hopes of coffee. She paused at the foot of the stairs, but kept her eyes down on her slippers. "I know you're trying. And I do appreciate that."

David nodded. "I'm going to turn up the heat a bit, so don't get surprised if the radiators knock a bit."

Her smile was at once apologetic and appreciative. "Thanks." She took the stairs up slowly, leaning on the ancient banister more heavily than a normal person might.

David didn't know how his sister had managed to turn out such a contrary daughter. Andrea had been so full of life; unconcerned with marrying even as she grew more and more pregnant. She'd laughed off the idea as unnecessary.

They'd fallen out of contact after Mab was born, Andrea preferring to move around every few years to give Mab 'a broader upbringing', but they still spoke every Christmas over the phone and occasionally flew out for birthdays. He'd gotten a vague sense of the complication surrounding Mab's health, but had no idea of the true breadth until his sister had called about two years ago, asking for him to sign on as Mab's secondary medical proxy. Andrea had pancreatic cancer, and just wanted to be prepared in case the worst happened.

The pair of them had moved back to New York, into a small house far out on Long Island. David hadn't seen Mab in maybe ten years so it came as a bit of shock to see her toll up to the brownstone in a wheelchair. _It's just for bad days, _she'd explained, and the look in her eyes openly dared him to make any further comment. She'd barely softened to him in the mean time between her arrival in New York and her mother's funeral. In that way, Mab reminded him a lot of his cat, Christine.

David cracked his knuckles as he turned on his ancient computer. "Okay, I can figure this out," he repeated a few times, finding the application website with only a few wrong turns.

_Welcome to the application for the New York Poet Laureate Residency, funded by an endowment from the September Foundation. Please read the instructions for application carefully, as no repeat applications will be considered. _

_Name of Applicant:_

"David… Dumont…" he typed, hunting-and-pecking for the keys. He got halfway through typing before the autofill on his computer highlighted the relevant fields all over the page, and tapping the enter key successfully added his address, email, and phone number.

_Sample of works (please limit to a single poem or other written short form work)._

David opened up a file on his desktop, scrolling through his favorite works from the last decade. He opened a few, tsked at his older writing style, and continued on. "Ah, that's definitely the one!" he declared, skimming the content and satisfied himself that it was appropriate.

His smile slipped as he recognized a stanza as one he'd gotten a little more help composing.

_Cracks in the walls  
let in a foggy discontent  
muddled by burdensome shadows_.

David glanced at the ceiling, listening to the shifting of wood as the old brownstone creaking in tune with Mab's wanderings and Christine's scuttled movements.

"No," he mumbled to himself, "she said no, David."

David attached his poem to the application, and scrolled through quickly to make sure everything had attached properly.

_Muddled by burdensome shadows._

Mab looked so much like his sister, even with her disapproving gaze. She shared a particularly wry wit that had made Andrea such a hit at parties growing up, even if Mab kept it fairly reigned-in out in public.

He paused over the submittal button. "Oh, to hell with it," he mumbled. He refused to be accomplice to her hiding from the world. He couldn't deal with the idea that his sister would be disappointed from the afterlife if he didn't at least try.

He scrolled back up in the form, deleting his attached poem and diving into a different file on his desktop. _Mab-app-dctrt_, he found it easily, and squinted at the screen until he found the right PDF. _Prayer-for-parity .pdf_

David glanced up at the ceiling again, as if he could feel Mab's angry disapproval radiating through the old building's frame. But she wouldn't be so angry if she won, right? They wouldn't have to worry about affording rent or groceries, or even about affording the laundry list of medication that kept her moving. She really was an amazing writer, even just idly, and New York should have a chance to read her works.

Before he could chicken out, he dragged the PDF into the submission box, scrolled to the bottom, and his _submit._

_Mr. David Dumont, thank you for your application to the New York Poet Laureate Residency. You will receive a confirmation email within the next 24-48 hours with a processing number you may use to look up your submittal on our website. _

David's eyes widened in horror. "Oh, _shit_."

"Oh shit what?" David spun in his desk chair, sitting in front of the monitor as Mab snuck up on him in the corner of the tiny dining room that served as his office.

"Nothing!" He replied. "Pop-up ad!" He raised an eyebrow as Mab draped a scarf around her neck. She was dressed to go out, grabbing her cane from the stand next to the door. "Where are you going?"

"Mariah called; she needs me to come in for an hour or so. Client's upset about some of the notes I made on his manuscript. Have you seen my gloves?" Mab asked, peering around his office.

David could see them from his angle. "On the radiator - they were drying from that day it rained. Do you need me to go with you? Are you sure you don't want your chair?"

Mab dismissed the idea with a hand. "Mariah's paying for a cab since it's last-minute, so I just need my stick. I should be back for dinner. Do you want me to pick up anything from the corner on my way in?"

_Prayer-for-parity .pdf_

"P-pears," David stammered.

Mab smiled. "Pears it is." Her smile drifted into an expression of concern. "Are you okay? You look a little pale."

"I think Christine ran off with my favorite pen," he lied immediately.

Mab rolled her eyes, pulling her gloves off the radiator and slipping them on. "I told you; that cat is a menace."

"Don't be mean about my cat," David defended Christine's honor against the made-up crime, "she has plenty of redeeming qualities!"

"Once any of those redeeming qualities involve purring, petting, or other proper cat behaviors I'll reconsider my opinion," Mab promised. "Try to get some work done this morning, Uncle David; I'm sure Mariah is going to ask."

David gulped nervously. "Lie for me."

Mab laughed, grabbing her keys from the bowl. "We'll see."

* * *

Two burly men stood in the half-dark bus depot, both staring with arms crossed at the inner workings of a wheelchair lift of a public bus.

"What the hell did you even do to this thing?" Ambrose asked. Paul's friend, and one-time mentor at the depot, was supposed to have seen almost every type of damage those public transit buses could handle.

"Couldn't tell you if I tried?" Paul replied. "Think you can fix it?"

"Fix it? That automated crap'll take your hand off if you don't do it right." Ambrose sucked his teeth. "It's brand-new! You know they're gonna chew you out if they find out."

Paul's heart raced and he felt a little light-headed at the thought. He couldn't afford to be out of work right now. "The new system's got bugs, right? They're probably gonna come around with parts-swaps in a couple'a weeks; I just gotta limp it along until then."

Ambrose seemed skeptical. "If you say so, because that screw-lift looks completely stripped to me. You're gonna drop someone if you're not careful."

Paul sighed, waving for Ambrose to give him a hand putting the cover panels back in place on his bus. "Why'd they have to change 'em all out, anyway? Old buses were working just fine."

"Well," Ambrose grunted, holding the panel in place while Paul slipped the screws into their holes. "If the governor doesn't spend his budget, you think they're gonna give him any more money? Gotta spend money to make money, you know."

The screwdriver slipped out of the head and dove for Paul's hand. Practice with tools saved him from a fleshy gouge to the hand. "Aren't they rolling in it with the Raft?"

Ambrose kicked the panel to get the final seating right, and nodded his approval at Paul's handiwork. "That shit's Federal. They make better money on transport days. Big fat check for every super they turn over."

"Where'd you hear that?" Paul asked, alarmed.

"Some shit Nancy watches - bunch of old ladies sitting around a table yammering about stuff they don't know anything about." Ambrose groaned as he checked his watch. "Speaking of old biddies - I'm gonna catch hell if I don't get home. See you tomorrow, Paulie."

Paul jangled his keys in his pocket, chewing on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. He'd figured out how to properly work the lift, but the damage he'd done to the delicate system during siad learning seemed significant.

But it would be okay, right? The more he thought about it, the more he'd heard that all these new types of systems came way overbuilt for their use. He nodded to himself, thinking back he also knew that they also came with redundancies. Being so brand-new, there was no way he'd broken it so badly it would fail any time soon.

* * *

**A/N:** I did notice that in my earlier chapters I mistakenly referred to Secretary Ross as "general". My bad. Not as bad as David's accidental plagiarism. Whoops. Hopefully, that won't have any consequences, lol.

Two chapters in two days? Y'all so spoiled.

**I love my reviewers!** cameron1812 and Victoria650!

**PLEASE REVIEW!**

**Edited to add in the name of the PDF that fanfiction removed.**


	7. Patience and Fortitude

Steve shook the rain off his hat and brushed water from his jacket shoulders as he walked through the doors of the library, feeling a little guilty about dripping water on the marble floors.

It had been more than a few days since his last summons from Secretary Ross to appear at a Raft transport location so he was certain one was imminent. He felt drawn to the old library with its solemn lions guarding the front doors, reminded by a lingering memory that he should pick up a new set of books to distract Mrs. Ellis.

Steve quietly asked the circulating librarian for book suggestions and was sent on his way with a shortlist of recommendations. Rain thundered against the ceiling, echoing ominously through the cavernous study hall. Steve took the elevator into the depths of the library's lower levels, relieved that the loud and insistent cacophony was greatly lessened by depth.

The library seemed to be a popular refuge in the rain. All of the open seats were taken, and the aisles slightly more crowded. People had taken their children and shopping in from the deluge outdoors, and the collection of both led to a series of excited shrieks and shushing parents, inevitably leading to quiet whimpers and tired meltdowns.

Steve found his books with relative ease; he was starting to get his bearings in this place after a limited number of visits. Confirmation of titles was interrupted as a peal of tinkling childish laughter bounced through the next aisle.

Small feet and broad wheels skimmed past the edge of the aisle, banking a hard right and the childish shrieking continued, even as the older rider tried with her own giggles to keep the child's enthusiasm in check.

Peering through books, Steve saw a familiar face driving stealthily through the books, chasing after a small toddler, whispering '_I'm gonna get you!'._ Playing tag with a toddler in a library, both received fairly nasty looks and amused smiles in equal measure. Steve leaned on the closest bookshelf, watching Mab for a minute longer out of pure selfishness as he appreciated the little moment of joy on a rainy day.

"Stephanie!" another voice called, and the toddler ran past in the other direction, followed by a rider in a black-and-yellow wheelchair. A different woman, securing an infant in a complicated-looking chest carrier, collected the enthusiastic toddler with a look of relief on her face.

She said something quietly to Mab, who grinned and shrugged before waving goodbye to the suddenly shy child. The mother reached for her purse but Mab shook her head repeatedly, even rolling backwards to put some distance between them. The mother looked grateful, nodding and pulling gently on her toddler's arm before heading in the opposite direction.

Steve's feet moved without proper instruction as they brought him within casual distance. "Hi again," he said as he walked into her field of vision.

Her head snapped up like she'd been badly startled. "Oh, hi!" she said loudly. A librarian shushed from the end of the row and Mab flushed a deep red.

Steve grinned mischievously. "Where are your manners, Mab?"

"Oh get stuffed, Steve." Her words were harsh but her face looked amused. "Funny running into you again."

He lifted the collection of books in one hand. "New books for my friend." Loud thunder boomed through the lower levels, the strength of it making Steve glance up out of habit.

"Contacts?" Mab asked, seemingly out of context.

"What?"

Mab pointed at her eyes. "No glasses today, just a hat. Contacts?" She kept talking, thankfully giving Steve enough time to wrap his head around the thought. "I could never get used to the idea of putting little pieces of wet plastic in my eyes every morning. Thankfully, my eyes are one part of me that actually works properly."

"I broke them, actually." it seemed a better answer than _they're a part of my disguise and I forgot them today._

She looked confused. "Your contacts?"

"My glasses. They broke," Steve clarified.

"Ah." She rolled her chair forward and back a bit.

Steve glanced down at the books in his hand. "I liked the book. The poems, I mean."

She smiled faintly. "Clearly you like torturing yourself, then."

"I'm told I wallow on occasion," he admitted.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Your friends are blunt."

"You have no idea."

It was an odd thought, that Mab kept up just fine with his stride rolling smoothly on well-maintained tires.

She hung a tight left into an aisle and scanned her slip of paper before searching the stack.

Steve waited, hands in his pockets.

"It's the red cover up there - could you grab it for me?" Mab asked.

Steve scanned the cover as he pulled it down. _Conversation Casanova: How to Effortlessly Start Conversations and Flirt Like a Pro._

He put the book back on the shelf. "So that's how it is?"

Mab was laughing behind a hand, trying and failing to hide the sparkle of amusement. "I'm sorry," her shoulders shook with laughter, "but it was just too easy. And your face!" She moved her hand from her face to her chest to reveal her broad smile, tapping her thumb against her collarbone. "But that was mean, I'm sorry."

Steve nodded. "Yeah, you look real sorry."

"No; I mean it. Let me carry your books."

"No, I couldn't-"

"Because I'm a girl or because I'm in a wheelchair?" she cut his protests off with a sharp raise of an eyebrow.

"Because I'm scared of what else you might sneak into the stack."

"I'll be good; I promise." She held out her hands for the books. She went through the stack immediately after receiving them, putting her two favorites on top. "Mm. _The Emperor of All Maladies_ and _Nickel and Dimed. _Someone has good taste."

Steve didn't want to admit the circulating librarian had chosen them. "So what are you actually looking for, Mab?"

"Ah yes - follow me." The art of navigating with the wheelchair seemed to be a delicate art. It didn't appear to have any kind of braking system, so turning and maneuvering was based on the careful application of pressure and grip to the handrails of the back tires. The quiet friction of steel against the thin fingerless leather gloves sounded like distant ocean waves on a timeless shore.

"Here it is," she offered the book for Steve's inspection.

_The History of English Syntax_. "I'll be honest, not what I was expecting."

"It's to settle an argument with a colleague."

"You came all the way to the library, braving the perils of public transit, to find a book to settle an argument?"

She bobbed her head side to side. "Well, hopefully, to _win_ an argument."

"That is…"

She raised her eyebrows, challenging; "Infuriating?"

"Determined."

Mab took her book back. "Can I ask you something?"

"I think you just did."

She sniffed indifferently. "Okay, smartass; why did you step in with that drunk on the bus?"

"What do you mean?" Steve was confused.

She waggled a finger like a disapproving mom. "Good New Yorkers keep their heads down, Steve."

"I don't like bullies."

"You're adorable."

"Are you this blunt with everyone?"

"Oh no, you're definitely special."

"Lucky me."

"Cheeky." She pulled a phone out of her pocket to check the time. "And distracting, too. I lost track of time and I need to check out if I'm going to catch my bus. I like to get going before rush hour so I don't get dirty looks if the bus is going to be full."

Steve was mildly appalled. "They wouldn't-?"

Mab interrupted with a dark laugh. "Oh, ho ho; yes they would!" She shrugged it off. "But I understand it, at least. Good seeing you again."

"You avoiding me?" he asked spontaneously, raising his voice enough to be shushed from a few rows over.

She paused, the leather fingerless gloves skimming the handrails just enough to come to a stop and turn at the same time. "I would honestly not _dream_ of avoiding you, Steve." She rolled backward, smiling in a suspiciously knowing fashion. "But I do have to go." She vanished too easily for someone in a vividly striped wheelchair - probably following the easiest route she'd practiced a dozen times through the stacks.

Steve thought about wandering through the aisles, grabbing a book at random and see where it brought him. But, he thought with a chuckle, he might pick up a landmine like _Conversation Cassanova _out of universal irony. He worked his way back up to the main level and checked out instead.

Steve slipped the books into his jacket pocket but his attention was drawn to a black-and-yellow chair rolling in the opposite direction. The roar of heavy rain on the ceiling high above thundered through all thoughts like an intrusive thought in its own right. It ran alongside the image of Mab using both hands to navigate her wheelchair, making soft ocean tides as she turned corners.

Thundering rain overhead, and both of her hands navigating gentle tides. Both hands. He lengthened his stride to catch up as she approached the accessible side door. "I'll wait with you."

Mab spluttered for a moment, resisting; "It's pouring, you really don't need to."

Steve was resolute. "I insist."

She huffed, lips thin as she stared up at him. "Well, then you're going to have to share an umbrella because I refuse to let you get soaked." She held out a compact green umbrella.

Steve unfurled the umbrella as Mab pushed a button that remotely operated the doors. It was a little tricky to get down the narrow ramp with both of them under the umbrella, but they managed.

Steve followed Mab's directions to get back to the front of the museum and they joined a small huddled group waiting under a covering of umbrellas at the bus stop. The bus shelter had been damaged and was cordoned off with some caution tape and a sad-looking traffic cone, leaving the riders exposed to the elements.

Water poured from the lions' backs in little waterfalls, smacking against the sidewalk in off accompaniment to the sideways glances Mab seemed to be receiving from others waiting for the bus. She caught his gaze, speaking volumes with a slight tilt of her head and a quick raise of an eyebrow.

Steve had gotten used to being the one on the receiving end of odd looks. Ever since the serum his height and breadth alone had drawn stares. In uniform, the effect was multiplied by an order of magnitude. Impressed, adoring, appreciative; those were not the types of looks Mab seemed to be getting.

He understood it a little better as the bus pulled up to the curb and no one moved as the doors opened. "Come on; I'm supposed to get on first," Mab said, rolling towards the bus.

The driver spotted her and nodded, reaching for a different set of controls next to the steering wheel. The bus crouched lower to the curb and a part of the stairs started to unfurl towards the concrete.

Mab rolled back slightly, and a quick glance at her face showed a confused frown. Steve was about to ask if everything was alright when the screw-lift jerked, vibrating the panel in place like a frightened bird. It dropped swiftly onto the sidewalk, slamming into the concrete with enough force to break the curb.

There were hushed whispers from other passengers waiting to get on the bus. The driver fiddled with the controls as his face reddened, and It took a few valiant tries to get it moving at all. It only seemed to want to retract into the bus in shuddering starts and stops, some internal gear whining in protest.

"Uh, I don't think we should try to lift you, ma'am," the driver called over the pouring rain.

The tired defeat on Mab's face didn't even look fresh; like these sorts of things happened all the time and she'd just learned to accept it. Steve knew the look. He'd seen it plenty of times on his mother's face. He'd seen it on Bucky's face. He'd seen it in the mirror. A tired resolution that carved away at the soul.

"I think there's a diner around the corner, maybe we can get something warm to drink while you wait for the next?" Steve suggested.

Mab sat very still in her chair as the other riders walked around her, easily ascending the three steps that proved to be a barrier to her transport. "Are you sure?" she asked quietly. "I mean, this is your bus, right?"

Steve shook his head as the bus driver shot him a '_you getting on or not'_ kind of look. "I've got other options. Come on - let's get coffee."

The lions outside the library glared down in judgment as the bus pulled away from the curb.

Steve had never been more aware of every uneven spot in the sidewalk; every spot where a trash can narrowed the field, and every broken curb ramp. Rainwater was collecting at every corner, skimming the bottom of Mab's shoes as she rolled from one block to the other.

It was an odd relief that the diner had a sloping concrete ramp up to the diner's front door. Mab didn't say a word as Steve held the door open, not even to ask for any assistance in conquering a minor steel-lipped threshold.

It took a waitress a full seven seconds - Steve counted - to seem to figure out what she needed to do when Mab asked for a table. "Uh, can you give us a minute? We'll need to move some chairs around."

Mab smiled blankly. "Take your time. We appreciate it." There was that odd smile again.

Chairs scraped as they rearranged the tables - not only to give them a table with only one chair but to move other seated patrons a few feet to the left or right so Mab could actually squeeze past and get to their table. It was a relief when they were seated.

"You two need menus?" the waitress asked.

"I'll just have coffee, please," Steve replied.

"Same. And dry toast," Mab added with her empty, vague smile.

The coffee came quickly, Steve leaving his black even as Mab added hefty amounts of heavy cream from a miniature carafe but avoided sugar entirely.

"So what do you do, Mab?" Steve asked as she seemed to uncoil the steel from her spine when the waitress gave them space, leaning forward on the table to fiddle with the paper placemat.

"Can't you tell?" She gestured broadly with her arms. "I'm a ballerina."

Steve snorted into his coffee but immediately looked horrified at his own amusement. Thankfully, he held in the apology that was written on his face.

But she smiled at it - a real one, not the vaguely empty one she seemed to make under all other circumstances. "I'm an editor for a publishing firm downtown; so basically, I read for a living. What about you?"

He was unprepared for the reciprocated question. "Uh, I'm a… military... contractor?"

"That sounds interesting! Do you get to travel a lot? I'd ask you where's the most interesting place you've been, but I imagine you can't tell me; classified, and all that." Mab coughed into her elbow, wincing slightly. "Sorry," she apologized quickly.

"You apologize a lot for things that aren't your fault," Steve parroted her earlier words.

"You know what, I take it back," she grumbled, "hope you get pneumonia." Mab's toast arrived and she ate it very slowly. "Do you like your work?"

"What do you mean?"

She dipped her toast in her coffee briefly. "It's a very normal question, Steve."

"I… don't know what I would do otherwise." Steve stirred his coffee with a spoon even though he hadn't added anything to it.

Mab made a thoughtful sound. "Well, that's depressing."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well," she smiled at the waitress as she refilled coffees, though Mab scowled immediately as soon as she turned her back. "She threw off my cream-to-coffee ratio…" she grumbled in explanation as she tried to correct it with the limited amount of cream left in the carafe.

"Excuse me?" Steve raised a hand, getting someone's attention. "Could we get more cream, please?"

The waitress beamed. "You got it, hun."

"Why do you say that's depressing, Mab?" Steve drew her attention back.

"I tripped over something sensitive there, I think." Her face did something funny where it looked like she was trying to smile, but hadn't managed it well. Her cream arrived and she spent careful moments getting the correct ratio back in her coffee, spending the time clearly mulling over her thoughts.

Her quiet contemplation made Steve a little apprehensive, and the long breath she took before speaking a relief. "If you take into account all of the ways that we reference our jobs in American culture, you have to come to the conclusion that we are nothing without our work. So, if you don't love what you do you either hate yourself or are in abject denial of yourself."

"That _is_ depressing," Steve murmured, stirring his coffee again.

"There's also a third option," Mab added hastily.

"Is the third option jumping out a window?"

"You've just got bills to pay." She shrugged, and she glanced around before adding; "It's not a crime to simply... survive."

"So do you like what you do?" Steve asked quickly.

"No," she said, "I don't. But I've got bills to pay and my plans of being a ballerina didn't work out so well."

"Why not?" Steve asked jokingly.

She made a dramatically sad face and sighed wearily. "As it turns out, I can't jump very high."

Steve had to laugh, and Mab laughed along with him, losing the last bit of toast in her coffee. "Oh, shit -" she went fishing with a fork, appeared to think about eating the overly-soggy bread, and then discarded it on her plate with a half-disappointed sigh.

"Do you want more toast?" he asked.

"Nah," she said. "You know," she stirred her coffee and stared at the marbling of cream and coffee, "most people either want to talk nonstop about the chair, or they can't talk about it at all."

Steve gestured to the chair in question. "Can we talk about the bumblebee stripes, because I've got to know."

"Oh, that's a funny one, I-" evidently laughing and talking at the same time wasn't so doable, because she started coughing. A few deep gulps of cold coffee seemed to do the trick at stopping it.

Steve's phone buzzed, and a message from Natasha popped up. _Wrong turn in Brooklyn? You're late. _

_They moved the buildings,_ he texted back.

_Drop a pin and I'll send a ride :)_

Steve dropped a pin around the block - he definitely didn't need Mab to see him getting into a luxury car, that would only raise questions he was hoping to avoid - before shoving the phone away. "I'm dead serious about the stripes, but I've got to go." He tore off a corner of the paper placemat, grabbed a pen from his pocket, and scribbled the pen to get the ink flowing.

"Here," he handed her the strip of paper. "If you ever want someone to wait with you in the rain for the bus, just give me a call."

Mab stared at it, her expression blank.

"Maybe I do need to go back and check that book out," Steve joked nervously.

"No!" Mab exclaimed. "I just…" she set her hand on it but didn't quite accept it. "You do… _see_ the chair, right? Spinny thing with black and yellow stripes? What are you trying to do here?" she asked accusingly.

Her warm face returned as the waitress came by with a carafe of coffee, refilling both mugs even though Steve was clearly leaving. "Thank you," she said, sounding earnest even though her eyes still had a sharp glint against him.

"What do you think I'm doing?" Steve asked carefully.

Mab hesitated, admitting softly; "I don't know."

"Okay then." He stood, pulling a twenty from his wallet and handing it to the waitress as she passed. "So… next time it rains, I'll be expecting a phone call."

Mab looked down at the strip of paper, then up at him. "And what if it rains tomorrow?"

Steve adjusted his hat and turned up his jacket collar to protect from blowing rain. "Then I'll see you tomorrow."

Stepping outside of the diner was like walking into a hurricane. The rain had gotten worse and a powerful wind had joined it. He was grateful to be getting a ride but thought in hindsight maybe he wouldn't have minded getting picked up just a little closer.

His phone buzzed and pulled it out to glance at the screen, expecting to see a witty reply from Natasha about how old men get lost. Instead, an unfamiliar number had texted him.

_If you ever feel the rash desire to wait around in the rain, you can call me, too._

* * *

**A/N: **A combination of circumstance now leaves the two of them as… more than strangers, that's for sure. Mab is 100% just yanking Steve around because she thinks it's funny. But also, staring at Captain America's phone number: Error 404, polite response not found.

I always find it interesting what themes become repeated when I write for a couple. For Bucky and Alice it was plants and sunrises. For my last YYH story, it was hands and stars. For this one, I think it's going to be rain and water.

THREE CHAPTERS IN THREE DAYS. Thanks, COVID-19 for keeping me trapped inside. I guess y'all get some decent content out of it.

I love my reviewers! Victoria650, cameron1812, and huffle-bibin!

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	8. Flanking Line

_Steve's knuckles ached, cracked and bleeding under the protective leather of his gloves. The muscles of his shoulders and legs screamed for rest. An endless stream of metal faces that laughed with one voice mocked their efforts and demanded blood. A body with too many bullets and not enough breath in its chest lay on the floor of the carrier's transport. _

_The massive structure composed of endless toils of impoverished people and the technological dreams of all the worst parts of man trembled in the sky as engines shuddered to a halt and it slowly yielded to gravity. Beyond his reach, beyond his control, beyond saving, the city would fall._

_Falling._

_A hole in the sky that tore through all expectations of dimension and reality, pouring out nightmares and swallowing friends. Aching and exhausted, pushed to the edge of survival and finding no more rope left to give, Steve could only watch as another moved to make the ultimate sacrifice. "Tony!" Steve yelled through the radio, hearing only devastating silence as he stared at a distant figure plummeting to the ground. Too far, too fast, too lifeless, he could feel the sick horror rising in his throat._

_Falling._

"_Bucky!" Steve reached until the tendons of his shoulder screamed at their limits, "Take my hand!" Fingers brushed his cold steel gave way and he caught only the barest glimpse of fear mixed with hurt as he just missed saving his friend. Too late, too slow, too weak to make a difference he could only squeeze his eyes shut and screw up the already weeping place in his heart as his friend vanished into the icy grip of death. _

_Falling._

_Falling inside himself, into himself, muscle shrinking away as his identity atrophied from misuse or abuse. Someone was pasting up papier-mache limbs on the outside of him to build him up again, painting a patriotic smile on his face and nailing a shield to his arm. Music built up around him and drowned out the cries and protests, muffling and muzzling him. He tried to move the arms but they moved in different ways, following commands he couldn't hear and just dragging him along for the ride._

_It is impossible to imagine-_

* * *

Steve snapped awake violently as he fell out of bed, catching himself before his face hit the floor but not before the sheets wrapped around his legs and prevented a more graceful landing. Sweaty palms slipped against the smooth floor but a quick grip of an area rug made for easy recovery.

Breathing heavily, Steve lowered himself slowly to the floor and rolled onto his back. He rubbed his palms across his face as he kicked off the sheets wrapped around his legs, wiping away sweat that stank of fear.

He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. "Lights on."

Friday brought the lights up slowly as Steve surveyed the damage to his bed. The too-fluffy bed had been nearly destroyed in the night; covers and pillows strewn throughout the room and a heavy scent of his nightmare clung to the air.

Ready to be rid of the reminder in the air, Steve pulled himself together and rolled to his feet. He pulled the sheets off the bed and stripped the pillows, collecting the linens into a neat pile before placing them in the linen chute in the corner. He knew the building's automated system would whisk them away and have them returned, freshly laundered, by the afternoon.

Steve pulled the spare sheets from a cabinet and went about making his bed, tucking the top sheet into tight pleats at the corners with a top surface flat enough to bounce a dime. Fluffing the pillows a little in their new cases, his bed made a pretty picture as he finished; no evidence at all of endless nights without restful sleep.

A hot shower that he regretfully switched to lukewarm halfway through helped clear the last of his senses. Alice had offered to make him an herbal soap that was supposed to soothe and ease his mind, but he honestly preferred the modern soaps that smelled nothing at all like his memories. He needed it to help separate his present from the past that clipped at his heels in the night.

Clean, calm, and completely collected at four-thirty in the morning, Steve knew he wouldn't be going back to sleep anytime soon. He dressed for the day and collected the stack of manila folders from the floor that usually lived at his bedside on his way out the door.

'_Coffee, Captain?'_ the ceiling asked him as he walked, the volume respectfully low for the early hour.

"Yes, please," he replied, trying to organize the stack of papers to make more than haphazard sense. He'd upset the collection at some point in the night, leaving it on the poor side of jumbled as a result.

The bitter smell of coffee welcomed him into the compound kitchen, but it took a little longer than usual for him to find a coffee mug. The previous shift had done some rearranging in the cabinets and nothing was where he usually left it.

Rotating with a collection of on-call Avengers sometimes left the compound feeling more like a public house than a military base, but they had made it work even though there were still kinks in the system. Tension seemed to live in the air - waiting to be called to assist in a transport, or apprehend a newly-discovered enhanced, or accompany a diplomat through compromised territory - they were always just waiting for the next alarm to go off.

The high-pitched keening wail of the "Kovy Alarm", as Sam and Rhodey tended to call it, had absolutely no regard for personal lives or sleep cycles. Summons to attend to the requirements of the Sokovia Accords, whatever shift happened to be available in their 48-hour cycle dropped everything when the government called. _How high, Sir?_

Waiting for his coffee to reach a drinkable temperature somewhere under third-degree-burn territory, Steve did his best to reassemble the folders' contents. Some folders were more difficult than others depending entirely on the content that was available in the file itself - or rather, how much had been redacted.

_LUKAS RUSSO 0-7-3-9 : ACHLUOKINESIS: [REDACTED] participant under the [REDACTED] pursuant to [REDACTED] subsection [REDACTED] paragraphs [REDACTED] through [REDACTED], clause [REDACTED] of the Sokovia Accords. Fled assigned posting at [REDACTED] and apprehended. Recommendation - permanent detention and suspension of constitutional rights on S.A. Vessel 'The Raft'. _

Staring at the mostly blacked-out page, Steve sipped at his coffee a bit too soon. He hissed in pain as it scorched the roof of his mouth and set the mug down.

"Friday," Steve addressed, knowing the computer was always listening, "where was Lukas Russo's original posting?"

'_That information has been classified.'_

"Yeah," he murmured, "I can see that. Can you do some digging?"

'_Is this an open or off-books search?'_

Steve considered it. "Off-books. Friday?"

'_Yes, Captain?'_

"How many sections of the Sokovia Accords include subsections with multiple paragraphs?"

The computer was silent as it ran a quick search. '_Three hundred and seventy-one.'_

Steve tested his coffee, finding it more temperate. "And how many of those also contain clauses?"

That search was faster. '_Fifty-three.'_

"Would you please have those printed for me?"

'_Sure,' _the computer replied, '_what are you looking for?'_

"I'm not sure yet." Steve's reading was interrupted by the violent screech of an alarm.

"Who's on duty?" he barked, losing his grip on the mug as he tried to quickly set it down in the sink. The porcelain shattered and he winced, but there wasn't time to clean it up.

'_Wilson, Rhodes, and Romanoff.'_

Steve was already jogging down the hall, headed for his suit and shield. "Tell them to gear up and meet me in the hangar bay in five."

* * *

Right at five minutes a collection of footfall signaled his small team had arrived at the jet, exchanging a range of tired comments and guesses as to the cause for the alarm.

"Fucking Kovy," Sam swore as he buckled his harness, looking all the world as though he was still fighting off sleep. "I was having _good dreams_."

"Don't be such a baby," Natasha chided, looking completely normal as she glided into the copilot's seat, checking fuel gages and confirming that the jet was prepared for takeoff.

"There's been a breach on the Raft," Steve briefed.

"What kind?" Rhodey asked.

"They're not sure yet. The Box is showing multiple sensors have gone dark." The Box. The quietest, deepest, darkest part of the Raft where terrifying powers went into solitary confinement.

"Anyone in particular?" Natasha asked as she took over control of the jet to handle takeoff.

Steve released his controls, switching to communications and dialing Washington. "De Léon."

Sam groaned. "The Aztec; great."

Trees zipped past as the heads-up display popped up in front of Steve, showing the interior of Secretary Ross's office before the man himself stepped into view. "_We're not receiving anything from the Raft. I'm recommending that we sink it to depth remotely."_

"Dropping the Raft will make it somewhat difficult to board and confirm on arrival," Steve tried to insist.

Ross was less than convinced. "_All due respect, Captain, but you're not the one in charge of these prisoners."_

Steve clenched his jaw to keep back the sharp retort that nearly jumped out of his mouth, settling for a more reasonable but still sharp middle-ground. "But you are asking for our help and I'm telling you that if you drop the Raft there'll be no way to know for sure that there was a breach; it will be unrecoverable."

There was a long, crackling pause in the connection as Ross mulled it over. "_Alright, Captain. If this goes sideways it's on you."_

Steve nodded. "We'll meet your men at the Raft."

"_Negative - meet the helicopter at the midtown landing pad. If there's been a breach we don't need to give him multiple avenues of escape." _Ross tapped something on his end and new coordinates popped up in front of Natasha.

"Received," Steve confirmed.

"_Don't be late,"_ Ross barked, severing his connection.

The tense silence inside the jet would have been unbearable if not for the roar of the engines accompanying it.

"Is it possible to be late at six in the morning?" Sam asked sharply.

"Sam," Steve started, but the reprimand fell short.

Natasha's mouth twisted into her typical sly smile. "We're ten minutes out."

"Ten, copy," Steve said, turning his head. "Rhodey - this is your first trip to the Raft, right?"

"I studied the schematics, but yeah. Why?"

"I want you to stick with Sam - it's easy to get turned around down there, and I don't want you anywhere near the Box if they do choose to drop it."

Rhodey's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What does that mean; 'drop it'?"

"It means some egghead in D.C. pushes a button or two and the ballast tanks get blown, flooding the Raft and dropping it to the bottom of the ocean," Sam said.

Rhodey was alarmed. "Why is that even an option!?"

Still going about the process of getting ready, Natasha flicked a switch on the jet to switch communications to their portable units. "Radio check, channel two."

"Two, confirmed."

"Two, check."

"Two - this place is still _somewhat_ safe, right?"

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "Relax, Rhodes; all the prisoners wear suppressor bands, so it's exactly as safe as a regular prison."

Rhodey rolled his eyes. "Oh, that's very comforting, thank you."

"Hope you're alright with getting a little wet," Natasha warned.

"I swear to God, if we have to swim-" Rhodey exclaimed as he unclipped his harness.

Natasha punched the ramp control and her warning became instantly clear as they walked down to the asphalt. Whatever weak rays of early sunshine might be attempting to peek over the horizon were beaten back by angry winds and driving rain.

Steve had to yell over the howling wind to be heard as the Raft Tactical team approached, heads lowered to walk into the freezing sheets of water. "Is your transport here?" he barked, not seeing the helicopter yet.

"Not yet, sir! It's having trouble landing in the storm!"

"Captain! Captain America!" A thin man in a yellow raincoat stumbled across the open asphalt, holding a recorder in front of him and likely getting rain pouring down the inside of his sleeve. "Can you tell me why the Raft has gone 'radio silent' for the last two hours?"

"You can't be back here."

"Actually, Sir, I have special permission from Secretary Ross himself so yeah, I can." The reporter flashed a press badge. "I'm with the Post-Standard. Hunter Jansen."

The chop of helicopter blades thankfully interrupted.

"Mister Jansen, I'm going to need you to step off the landing site so we can get this bird down."

"I'll get you on the way out, shall I?"

The heli-transport was far, far less than comfortable. The howling wind shook and battered the reinforced aircraft, using its bulk against it in stomach-churning fashion. Wet, cold, and on the only slightly better side of miserable, the group kept receiving odd looks from the tactical team.

Steve glanced at Natasha to see if she'd noticed as well. She returned his glance with a sidelong look of her own.

She'd noticed.

Natasha reached above her for one of the integrated headsets built into the transport - the only way to be heard over the combined fury of the engines and the storm outside and shot a friendly smile to a tac-team soldier across the transport. He pointed to himself in a 'who, me?' kind of confusion and Natasha nodded with a soundless laugh.

Poor man had no chance, Steve thought to himself, hiding a grin behind one hand. She'd worked her charms with less time than a thirty-minute chopper ride to work with. Even without being able to hear a word of their conversation, the aura of her charm was palpable. He'd seen it up close, back when SHIELD had fallen, and even then it hadn't been directly intended to charm him but do misdirect the Strike team hunting them down.

As quickly as she'd turned on the charm it switched off as the helicopter slowed, hovering over the slowly opening bay doors of the Raft. Leaning to one side, Steve could see out the small window and see sheets of rain replacing the waves of seawater trying to enter the facility.

The helicopter shuddered as it descended, fighting against gusting winds and powerful rains to make a safe landing on the launch pad. Steve was not the only one to breathe a deep sigh of relief as they finally landed.

Steve nodded to Sam and Rhodey and they disembarked with the rest of the team, giving him and Natasha the briefest of moments to talk before they would be noticed missing.

"What time did the Kovy sound at the compound?" she asked under her breath.

"Just before five."

"That tactical team has been waiting at the midtown launch pad since four." She looked up at him, her lips pursed. "So why did the Secretary wait until five to sound the alarm?"

Tense voices from outside the helicopter cut their discussion short. Steve jumped out of the open transport door, shield at the ready and Natasha right behind him. He'd been ready for a fight. He hadn't been ready for the collection of arguing officers that seemed beyond confused and irritated that they'd landed on the Raft.

"Major Thomas!" Steve barked, interrupting the rising voices.

The Raft's commander looked beyond confused to see him. "Captain Rogers? What are you doing here?"

Steve approached, and both his team and the Raft's guards moved swiftly out of his way. "De Léon's transponder went dark - did he escape the Box?"

The Major spluttered. "Escape the - the Aztec was transferred to gen-pop, sir. Transferred yesterday. He's been a model prisoner. You could have called, Sir, and we'd have told you that."

Steve was quickly developing a headache. "D.C. has been calling you nonstop for the last three hours, son."

"I'm sorry, Sir." Major Thomas gulped nervously, suddenly aware of the relevance of the sudden visit. "I'll have someone check the relays immediately. Can I… can I get you somewhere to sit down? Maybe dry off?"

Steve shook off the rain, regretting not clipping his helmet on before stepping off the helicopter and onto the open landing pad. "Where is De Léon right now?"

"In the dining hall having recreational time with the others." He was certain - no doubt at mixed in with his concern and confusion.

"Show me."

The Major waved down a guard. "Pearson, take the Captain directly to the mess."

The others stayed completely silent as they were led through the maze of halls into the depths of the Raft, bypassing two new checkpoints that Steve didn't remember seeing before.

'_Captain, you're receiving a phone call,' _Friday reported in his ear.

"I'm kind of busy at the moment," Steve said.

'_Caller identification lists it as a favorite contact; Mab.'_

Steve stopped short of the dining hall entrance. Water dripped from his shoulders and tumbled through open metal grating into the depths of the Raft. It was raining in New York. "Put her through."

He waved the others on as he stepped to the side of the doorway. Natasha raised an eyebrow and stayed behind as Rhodey and Sam continued inside. "Hello?" he asked as the comms switched over to a connection with his cell phone.

"_Steve?" _Mab's hesitant voice seemed quietly apologetic.

Head ducked as he tried to keep his conversation relatively private, water rolled off his helmet and tickled his nose in an unpleasant way. "You don't think I could convince the weather to rain tomorrow instead, do you?"

She laughed. "_Probably not; but you never know in New York. You're busy, aren't you? I'm sorry, I'm shouldn't have-"_

He stopped her short. "No, I told you to. Listen I'm… on assignment right now."

She seemed to understand. "_Ah, secret military contractor stuff."_

A guard seemed to notice his distraction and moved to intervene, raising a commanding hand. "Captain Rogers, you can't make calls in here-"

In a flash, Natasha had stepped between them, even advancing with enough confidence in her face to make the guard take a step back. "No no," Natasha warned, finger to her lips.

Grateful for the assist but mindful of his mission, Steve tried to wrap up the call quickly. "Mab, are you at the library now? Because I can have someone meet you."

"_No; it's early and I'm still at home. But… I just checked and the weather report does say there's a fifty percent chance of rain tomorrow?" _In most other circumstances it might be odd to hope for rain.

"I'll be there," Steve said.

"_Okay." _Piped directly into his ear, was he imagining the clarity with which he could hear a smile in her voice? "_I'll see you tomorrow."_

"Okay," he could feel the corner of his mouth lift into a weak smile, "Ten?"

Some paper shuffled. "_Eleven? I've got a thing downtown at nine."_

He nodded even though she couldn't see him. "Eleven it is."

"_Okay,"_ she said again. "_I'll see you. Bye."_

"Bye." Phones didn't click when a call ended now; the line just went dead or a little beeping chime might remind you that you were now just talking to yourself.

Steve lifted his head, finding that Natasha looked like the spider that had caught the canary. "So…?" she asked, nearly purring in satisfaction.

"Don't start," Steve warned, leading her through the open doorway into the dining hall.

"What? I'm just curious," she defended, "I thought you were too busy for dating."

It figured that Rhodes and Sam hadn't gotten far, and managed to pick up on the conversation at exactly the worst time for Steve. "You've got a date? Congrats, man," Rhodey slapped him on the shoulder. "Is it Sharon?"

"I bet it's Sharon," Sam agreed, looking smug about it.

Nat shook her head. "Mm, it's not."

"Bet?" Sam asked.

"Twenty bucks," Nat shook on it before Steve could stop either of them.

"You're both wrong - I'm not dating anyone; just meeting a friend."

Natasha considered this, turning to Sam. "Twenty bucks," she demanded, holding out her hand.

* * *

The Raft was an odd place to be detained. It wasn't technically a prison, since they weren't afforded the same rights as a prisoner of the United States, but whatever expectations Ginny might have had about being there had fairly swiftly been thrown out of the window.

Ginny didn't exactly 'make friends' with the other prisoners of the Raft, but she was careful not to make enemies. Her slightly-rounded mom-look had served her well; she benefitted from reminding more than a few people of their own mothers. Sure, there were the usual brawls as people locked involuntarily into tight quarters and given the barest of food that counted as nutritious are always likely to need, but Ginny was always excluded. Nobody had beef with Mom.

In fact, the threat of a fight had seemed particularly bad only the day before during rec time. Ginny had pressed herself into a far corner as the room locked down and warnings from the guards above could barely be heard over the yelling within the dining hall.

Someone new to the general population that Ginny hadn't exchanged a single word with moved between her and the angry, milling crowd; towering far above six feet and reaching for seven, he was a very effective barrier. Back to the crowd and giving her a friendly smile, he had spoken in a low and calming voice.

"What are you reading?" he asked, not bothering to give the brewing conflict any attention.

"_The Emperor of All Maladies," _she'd answered hesitantly, holding the book out a little further from the tight grip she'd had against her chest.

"Is there a library?"

Ginny could have laughed. "No, but I can put in a word for you if you'd like? Geneva Ellis; Ginny." She held a hand out for a shake without really thinking about it.

"Miguel De Léon." He said his name with a smooth latin roll, and took her hand slowly, carefully. A cup thrown from across the room beaned him on the back of the head. He hardly seemed to notice.

She liked Miguel. She waved him over to her table as she settled in for morning rec and waited for the mess line to open for breakfast. The waters of men parted for him, some moving in a skittering motion to get out of his way. They acted as though Miguel was a man with a bad reputation, though the man himself barely acknowledged it.

"Breakfast is late," he commented in greeting, sitting on the table instead of the bench. The mental image of him trying to fold his big legs under what would be a very low table for him was quite funny, and Ginny smiled.

But her friend was right. The disruption in the ordinarily iron-clad schedule seemed to be putting people on edge. She looked around, taking in shifty looks and twitchy hands all around. All, it seemed, save for Miguel and one always-calm Russian.

Ginny stood, stretched her bad knee, and walked slowly over to the Russian. His two larger companions paid her no mind. To them, at least, she had clearly been classified as harmless. "Good morning, Mr. Volkov." She noticed he kept his gaze fixed up at the guards' catwalk above. "Are you expecting someone?"

"Not necessarily, Mrs. Ellis," Ivan Volkov greeted, also nodding to Miguel who had followed Ginny without a sound. Impressive, for such a large man. Volkov's large companions had clearly _not_ classified Miguel as harmless and took wary steps forward. Volkov waved them off with a benign smile.

The doors opened and two guards entered, followed by two men she didn't recognize. "Holy shit…" she murmured, sitting up straighter on the bench. She _did_ recognize them, but only from the news.

Ivan Volkov's attention drifted to a clock on the wall. He rubbed together the thumb and first two fingers of his left hand but soon twitched his suppressor wrist irritably. "Interesting," he said smoothly with a smile.

"What's interesting?" Ginny asked.

His smile broadened, deepening the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. "Breakfast is late."

"Right…" Ginny murmured, not quite believing the answer.

"You behave today, Mrs. Ellis. I don't believe our friends will be in a giving mood for a while." He nodded to Miguel and calmly clasped his hands behind his back, meandering off and leaving a very confused Ginny behind.

Miguel sighed. "Geneva, you are a trouble magnet."

Ginny made a weird face. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You cannot be a mother to Ivan Volkov; he's at least twice your age." Miguel hummed as someone else in the crowd caught his eye. "Russo, on the other hand, could use a motherly scolding once in a while. He spends too many days in the Box."

"He's just having a hard time lately," Ginny defended automatically, and Miguel laughed heartily.

"There! Do you see? Mother hen looking after ducklings not her own."

"Two-eight-eight!" A guard yelled, advancing with a tasing rod already in hand.

"_¿Si?" _Miguel asked calmly, managing better than Ginny would have not to flinch.

The guard threatened Ginny briefly with the rod and she stepped back, arms raised. She hadn't been tased in a while and had no plans to relive the experience anytime soon. "Suppressor check, two-eight-eight."

Miguel tilted his head, holding out the arm with his suppressor band. "_¿Quieres comprobar esto?"_

"Yes, you big fu - I mean… yes, two-eight-eight." The guard glanced up to the observing Avengers, their presence seeming to unnerve him.

"_No es mi culpa que no hables español,"_ Miguel muttered as the guard inspected the band.

Any time the large man breathed out of rhythm or shifted his stance, the guard flinched. It took several minutes for him to inspect all of the external components and confirm all the right lights were blinking, and Ginny believed the poor guard nearly had a heart attack at least twice.

Satisfied at last, the guard backed away. "Back to your rec time, Aztec."

"_¿Que?"_ Miguel asked.

The guard gestured with the tasing rod, twirling it a little. "Tiempo de juego, two-eight-eight."

Miguel nodded emphatically, smiling warmly. "_Ah, Si. Espero que desarrolles tacto en algún momento y al menos me preguntes si hablo inglés."_

"Whatever." The guard retreated quickly and Miguel sat back down on the table. Where Ginny would have been exhausted by the exchange, Miguel seemed entertained.

"So do you do that for fun, or…?" she trailed off.

He leaned back, tapping a finger absently on the steel table. "They never asked."

Ginny looked around for Ivan but the Russian had vanished already. "Is that like exploiting a racist stereotype in reverse? They assume the Mexican can't speak English, so you don't correct them so they leave you alone?"

"Something like that."

Ginny straightened as a familiar star-spangled form walked out onto the guard's catwalk, followed by a familiar redhead. She lifted her hand a little to wave, thought better of it, and put her hand down.

The Captain seemed to find her anyway, and from a distance she could see him offer her a nod and a small smile. Ginny smiled back, returning the familiar nod.

Glancing around, his avenging friends seemed to be discussing something at length and not paying attention to the Captain, he lifted his hands and made a book-opening gesture, the question on his face. _Done with the books?_

Ginny lifted _The Emperor of All Maladies_ slightly, then set it down. She wasn't quite finished, so she held her fingers slightly apart in a pinching gesture. _Little bit left._

Steve nodded, and held up two fingers slightly, tilting his head. _Two more?_

Ginny shook her head, then tilted it to Miguel while still looking at the Captain, and held up three fingers. _One more for my friend._

Steve's shoulders shook with a mild laugh she couldn't hear at her distance and he shook his head in disbelief, but nodded. _Sure._

"Arranging contraband, Geneva?" Miguel asked, amusement evident in his tone.

"Something like that," Ginny replied, and Miguel laughed.

* * *

**A/N:** Hi again, my wonderful readers! I hope you are all hunkered down safe and sound in these trying times. May I offer you a chapter in these trying times? I'm also trying so hard to resist the urge to point at a few lines here and there, chapter by chapter, with a wink and a nudge, because I don't want to ruin anything for you if you didn't notice it on your own.

My outline for this story is a chonky boi - reminders to myself to add foreshadowing and content and notes on flow and character development as plot lines go forward and back in how forcefully they're pushed to the "front" of a chapter. It's probably the most complicated I've ever written and it's still growing and developing as I feel out these first ten chapters.

**I love my reviewers!** Cameron1812, tuckerjnp1, huffle-bibin, LIsaPark, cHoCoLaTe-RuM, nekokairi, xEarthAlchemistx, Victoria650, and K Lynx!

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	9. Daydreamer

Mab tapped a pen against the long mahogany conference table in impatient irritation, following along with the tempo of only two bars of music running on a loop in her head. She tapped the screen of her phone to check the time and sighed as it read _9:47_.

If she could spend forty minutes coordinating subway and bus rides to be at the office on-time, why couldn't anyone else manage to run even close to that?

Smart flats slapped against the thin office carpet in the hallway and a barking voice overpowered the ambient noise, preceding the arrival of Mab's boss. Mariah looked for all the world like someone's fun-loving, sock-knitting, cat-hoarding aunt. Plump and adorned in all of the kitschy crocheted accouterment of an older childless woman, the resemblance stopped short at her face and recoiled in fear at her voice.

"How've you been, Mab?" she asked, sweeping into the room with a clatter of heavy jewelry, giving a brief glance at Mab's wheelchair as she passed. Her brow showed she wanted to ask, but the pursed shape of her lips showed she knew better.

"Peachy." Mab's attention moved briefly to the wide bay of windows, appraising the low-hanging clouds threatening rain. "So what didn't you want to say over the phone?"

Mariah pushed a plate of muffins closer to Mab, who shook her head at the offer. "Mab honey, you've more than proved yourself to be a great editor since your uncle convinced us to take you on, and I'm glad you were able to make working from home work so well with all of the… everything." Mariah cleared her throat. "Look, I'm not saying you're not a great editor, because you are, I'm just saying that you need to learn to be nicer."

"Nicer." Mab repeated the word as if that would make it sound less ridiculous.

Mariah nodded, and her glasses slipped down her nose a little, disturbing the beaded lanyard keeping them from getting lost. "Yeah; nicer. Terry called after he got his manuscript back and he didn't appreciate all of your notes."

Mab chewed on her lower lip briefly, restraining a sharp retort. "Which notes exactly?"

Mariah waffled. "All of them."

"So," Mab spoke carefully, setting down her pen and lacing her fingers together, "he would prefer that notes in the vein of 'new paragraph' and 'spelling error' and 'capitalize' read as… what?"

Mariah leaned back in her chair, some part squeaking in protest. "This is his fifth book with us; can't you just write over the text with the changes instead of adding notes?"

"This is his _fifth_ book with us, Mariah!" Mab's voice rose a little higher than she'd intended. "Can't he just learn to capitalize his character's names and spell them consistently on his own?"

Mariah leaned forward and jabbed a finger at Mab threateningly. "Your job is to _edit,_ not to try to teach him some kind of lesson! He wants you _fired, _Mab! This is the _third-_"

"What?" Mab interrupted, her voice shaky.

Mariah breathed deeply, reigning in the fire that had risen to match Mab's frustration. "I'm not going to fire you; you're too good for that. I _am_ saying that I can't keep pulling you from projects because you can't get along with the authors. Don't make me choose between you and the money again, you understand?"

"Yes." Mab lowered her head, clenching her fists in her lap. "I understand."

Mariah sighed, pushing her glasses further up her face. "Since we don't know if you're going to be back here before your birthday, take this." She retrieved a small package wrapped in newspaper from her tote bag and slid it across the table.

"What is it?" Mab asked suspiciously.

"A box of scorpions," Mariah deadpanned. "It's a birthday present; take it."

Mab accepted the package, putting it away in her bag at Mariah's further prompting. Mab checked her phone. "I'm running late; I have to go." She pushed her wheelchair back from the conference table and hastily swung her bag around to the back. It caught against her shoulder and scratched deeply.

Mariah seemed concerned. "Are you okay on the bus with that? Should I call you a cab?"

"I got here fine, I'll get back fine." Mab didn't mean for the tone to be so sharp - she was on thin ice already - but her boss seemed to understand. Or, at the very least, gave her a little more leeway to be cranky at the moment. "See you next time," she added, offering a warm smile.

Mariah held the glass door open for Mab to retreat. "You'll get it right. It just takes work."

Mab could feel a scream building inside her as she rolled down the long hallway and people jumped out of her way like they were a hero in their minds. Impulsively she took a left when the elevators required a right turn, retreating to the company bathrooms. It was a little difficult to wrangle the heavy door but she managed, swiftly locking it to secure her alcove of sanity against any intruders.

Smooth tile surfaces and humming overhead lights welcomed her with broad arms, inviting her to roll far from the door and skin across pristine reflective surfaces. Mab raised her hands, trembling, and pressed both tightly against her mouth, trapping all the anger and frustration inside her body.

Mab screamed into her hands. The breath ran out of her, bending her at the waist and bowing her head to scatter her tears into her lap. She could feel the gaping maw of her scream pulling down on her jaw; a painful force trying to claw its way out of her and raze the earth bare.

Mab locked her wheels, kicked the foot pedals out of the way, and savored the act of standing. Blood rushed from her head as she rose and static filled her vision. A quick grab for the sink saved her from teetering over and breaking into a thousand pieces on the floor. Gripping the artificial porcelain with shaking hands she looked in the slightly crooked bathroom mirror.

Eyes puffy and red, and a feeble attempt at professional makeup had smudged all over. Mab splashed water on her face and couldn't worry about the waste of mascara.

A memory of a soft touch caressed the back of her head. "_Oh honey… are you not feeling well? Do you want something to settle your stomach?"_

Mab remembered crying in a different bathroom, not so long ago. "_I just can't handle it - I can't handle one more thing being wrong."_

Her mother's strong voice denied her anguish. "_Yes you can. You can and you will, and you'll handle the next thing and the next. You're a Dumont, and Dumont women are fearless."_

"_Just let me be upset about this!" _She'd smacked her mom's hand away, too tired of the coddling and gentle touches. She didn't want to be yet more breakable and another rung down the ladder. But her mom had stayed, still within reach and still embracing with gentle hands.

Now Mab was alone, in such a similar moment that she could almost smell her mother's perfume or feel the caress of her hands on her hair. Mab closed her eyes and lowered her head, taking shaky but deep breaths to steady her frustrated emotions.

The dizziness was catching up and Mab retreated to her chair. It waited with open arms as she eased down into it and unlocked her wheels.

Someone banged on the locked bathroom door. "_Hurry up in there!"_

As Mab took her time ensuring she was good to go, the person outside grew more agitated, banging harder as Mab rolled up to the door and unlocked it.

The door-banger, a tall man in a loose suit, drew down his gaze from the height of an ordinary person to Mab's much lower level. He flushed a deep embarrassed purple and spluttered an apology. "Oh! I'm - I'm sorry, I didn't…"

Mab beamed with her best fake smile. "It's fine." She ran over the edge of his shoe as she passed, and though he hissed in pain he clearly didn't dare yell anymore.

She could feel that scream growing inside her again as she descended in the elevator and multiple smiling faces offered to take the next elevator as if her disability might be contagious or otherwise required a safe distance.

The scream inside her bounced around her tightly-closed mouth as she waited for the bus under a faintly-raining sky, as she boarded the bus on a shaky lift, as she was locked down into place, as she was released and the process reversed.

The scream clawed inside her like hunger, demanding sacrifice every time she smiled and was so far from meaning it. She beat it back as she skimmed up the accessible ramp and the auto-switch opened the door for her. The silence of the library threw a weighted blanket over her anger and her shoulders began to relax.

In search of a hero, for a figure he could never hope to properly disguise under fake glasses and a baseball cap - not to anyone really looking, anyway, the scream inside her began to fade. The hungry, furious, screaming demon inside her chest cackled as a long-abandoned door creaked open just a little wider than before.

Mab spotted him examining science fiction novels and she grinned without meaning to. She stopped one aisle over and pulled out her phone, thumbs hesitating over the screen before texting a single word.

* * *

"Do I want to know?" the librarian asked, raising an eyebrow at the poor condition of the book Steve was trying to return. Waterlogged and generally bedraggled, he'd somehow forgotten the little novel was in his pocket on his last trip to the Raft and it had been utterly ruined.

Steve hunched lower as he tried to appear even more apologetic. "I'm so sorry; I thought I'd kept it well enough out of the rain, but…"

The librarian sighed, peeling open the back cover to scan the barcode inside. "These things happen, but I am going to have to fine you the cost of the book."

"Of course, yes, thank you." Steve pulled out his wallet and happily paid the twenty-dollar fine.

"I am going to have to ask you to be more careful in the future," the librarian advised as she returned his library card and a small amount of change. "No more drowning borrowed books."

"Of course," Steve agreed emphatically, "and before I forget - could you point me towards the self-help books?" He checked his watch, confirming he still had a little time to set up his joke before he was due to meet Mab.

"Second sublevel, follow the signs."

"Thank you."

It didn't take too long checking the shelves with his head at an uncomfortable angle, reading titles and mulling over his options before Steve found the perfect book. He hesitated a moment, though, wondering if maybe he shouldn't. Sure, she'd laid a funny trap for his antiquated chivalrous nature, but was it alright to play one in return?

He didn't have a lot of experience to draw on. Natasha was more of a conversational wit than an outright prankster, he hadn't spoken to Sharon since she'd lost her cover as his neighbor, and Alice was usually too busy to dedicate her time to jokes. And Peggy… Steve's heart sunk and regret chewed at him. He grabbed the book from the shelf and headed for the elevators, going down.

_What am I even doing here? _Steve thought, watching the elevator's little digital screen confirm his descent. He was just playing pretend at some version of history where he got to be normal; to obsess over whether his words might make a lady upset and not over whether they might ignite a war.

Steve had started to believe that the guy who wanted stability, a family, and life beyond conflict had gone into the ice seventy years ago and someone else had come out. He'd started to believe, he realized, that he'd volunteered to be a tool of the government; that he still owed them something after all this time.

_But I do_, he thought sourly. He'd signed the Accords to give Bucky his freedom and legitimize Wanda, Vision, and Sam. To keep the family together. They also seemed to be collecting new members faster than Steve could keep track - they had an Ant-Man _and_ a Spider-Man now as well. Did they understand what they were signing on to, or did they just trust that the Avengers wouldn't direct them into a storm?

He turned down an aisle, following call numbers to find his other books and increase the stack. Just to be safe, he planned to bring four books with him on his next outing - just in case either he ruined another one or Mrs. Ellis had made another friend. He'd be safe either way.

Steve lost track of time as he found his books and reading the backs to try and get an idea of what he was collecting, Steve absently pulled his phone out of his pocket as it buzzed.

_**Peekaboo**_, the text read. Eight letters and no punctuation and the world slipped away. A small amount of eager anticipation caught up as his head jerked up, searching only briefly until a familiar set of wheels breached the end of the aisle, followed by a sly smiling Mab.

"Hey, stranger. Branching out, are we?" she asked, eyeing the section.

Steve shrugged, adding another book to his stack. "You could say I'm starting something of a book club at… work."

The corners of her lips quirked up in a smile. "Mmn, cryptic. Very classified military contractor work, book clubs are. Everything went okay with your assignment yesterday?"

Mild panic coursed through him. "Well, I really can't talk about it."

"I know," she folded her hands in her lap, "but I can still ask if you're ok, right? You and your - what would it be: your team? Squad?"

Her concern was touching, and her understanding a relief. "Everyone's fine."

"Good." Mab held out her arms for the stack of books. "Give them here."

Steve surrendered them without protest. "There's one for you in there."

"For me? Which - oh _haha_." She threw the book at his chest and he caught it easily, poorly stifling his laughter. _How to Make Friends and Influence People. _"You're hilarious."

She was still smiling, and the new sparkle to her eyes said he'd done the right thing by returning her practical joke. "Well if you don't like my suggestions, what are you here for instead?"

"I have a confession." She looked guilty. "I called you yesterday because it was raining, not because I was really planning on going to the library. It's just…!" She made a distressed noise. "When we talked the other week, you said 'next time it rains I expect a phone call', and I thought if it rained and I _didn't _call that you might think I was ignoring you or something, and I would _never-"_

Steve waved his hands, hoping to interrupt the quick rambling panic she'd descended into. "Whoah, slow down!"

She huffed, a little cough accompanying it as she tried to compose herself. "It meant a lot to me that you were… you know… not a dick. So I wanted to make sure you knew that I knew you meant it." Her brows knitted together in a sincere frown.

Steve could have laughed but he thought that might be a little too mean. It was too much of a relief that she worried about the little things just as much as he'd agonized over whether it was appropriate to play a practical joke. "So here we are."

"Yep. Here we are." She glanced at the aisle. "I guess I could do worse than science fiction for casual reading." She trailed her fingers over the spines. "What are you reading these days, Steve?"

"Mostly briefings from… from work." Why did he always stumble over the easy questions?

She examined him carefully. "Open to suggestions?"

"I don't think I have the spare time," he admitted.

"Okay." She let it drop without further comment. "Well, you're in front of the section I want to peruse, so unless you want me to roll over your feet…"

Steve obligingly moved out of her way, managing to keep himself from apologizing. The broadening of Mab's smile indicated that she noticed, and appreciated it.

Even though she let it go so quickly, Steve's mind continued to dwell on it. He spent all of his free time working on reviewing Raft documents, on training, on helping others train. In reality, he didn't actually have free time.

So would it be so wrong or too selfish to carve out time for himself? Wasn't that what he was doing at that exact moment? Offering to wait in the rain with this stranger - less strange every time they crossed paths - wasn't going to prevent any wars, but he'd done it anyway. He'd done it because at that moment he'd felt the most like his old self.

"Mab?" he broached quietly.

"Hmmn?" she asked idly, her brow furrowing as she made some very serious decision between the two books.

He cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets. "If I did have the time, sometimes, what would you recommend?"

She glanced up at him, seemingly judging his sincerity before answering. "Well… for military contractors with very little time on their hands, possibly in need of a bit of escapism?" Mab paused too long, stared up at him too carefully. "_The Martian Chronicles._ It's a collection of short stories from 1950, so no one bit will take up too much of your time."

She leaned down, grabbing a book from the bottom row, but as she sat up her eyes lost focus and she dropped the book into her lap. She flailed a little, grabbing the handrail on one tire but missing the other, knocking into the bookshelf instead.

"Mab!?" Steve asked, crouching quickly and grabbing her flailing hand to keep her from hurting herself.

"I'm okay," she answered in a slightly dreamy voice, squeezing his hand, "just… got a little dizzy." She blinked rapidly, letting go of the tire rail to rub at her eyes. "I made the mistake of wondering what it might be like to be your height and I got vertigo."

"Look at me," Steve ordered, not liking the shaky wobble he could still feel through her hand.

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"Sure you are; look at me." He held up one finger with his free hand and Mab's eyes lagged in focusing on it. Crouched down so he was level with her face the color of her eyes jumped out at him for the first time. Blue pouring into green, water nourishing a spring garden, diving into an emerald abyss.

She protested and her voice grounded him again, drawing him out of his distraction. "I didn't hit my head on anything; it's just my meds."

"Follow my finger, Mab," he ordered, watching her eyes twitch side-to-side as she followed the path of his hand. Blue, blue forgetting that it was blue and transforming to green, green like life waving at the shore from tumbling ocean waves. The call of the dark heart of her eyes grew stronger the longer he stared; promising rest, promising peace.

"Do I pass muster?" she asked, squeezing his hand.

Steve coughed as he let go of her hand, aware that he had held on and stared far longer than was polite. He stood, brushing some floor lint from his knees. "You look okay to me."

"Well, thank you, Doctor Steve; I'll be sure to let my medical team know I have your stamp of approval." Mab fiddled with the crooked stack of books in her lap. "That's more than enough excitement for one day; shall we?" she invited him to follow her with a wave of her hand.

Steve surrendered. "Well, you've got my books so I guess I'm at your disposal."

"Such power!" she declared with an excited whisper, taking off down the aisle towards the elevators.

He didn't need to measure his steps to make sure his companion could keep up. She skimmed along at a brisk pace, the motion of air around her forcing bits of bark-brown hair to flutter in the artificial breeze. It was easy, easier than any part of the last week. Talking like normal people, doing normal things, enjoying interactions not colored by an omnipresent dread of forced action or inaction.

She waited patiently as he checked out and made no comment about the additional warning he received about not getting his books wet. He returned the favor, waiting as she exchanged mild pleasantries with the librarian who seemed intent on asking multiple questions about Mab's uncle.

Like the time before, Mab handed him her green umbrella as she opened the automatic door, but paused as soon as she rolled out onto the ramp. "Oh," she said softly, holding a hand up to the sky, "it stopped raining."

"I guess we don't need this," he said, giving back the umbrella as she reached the bottom of the ramp and turned out on clear concrete.

"No," her face fell and her smile turned sad, "I suppose not."

Steve instantly understood the meaning of her sadly soft words. That was supposed to mean he didn't have to be there. It meant that she felt poorly for imposing on his time.

"Come on," Steve said, turning the opposite direction as the bus stop.

Mab followed, keeping up easily with his long strides. He normally made an effort to move with crowds and not be the rude guy who made others move out of his way. But with Mab in tow, he held his ground, and people moved easily out of his way, clearing the way for her to have an easier time of it.

The tables in Bryant Park - a refuge of greenery tucked away behind the library - were mostly unoccupied as it had only just stopped raining. Steve picked a spot set back from the sidewalk and moved one of the pair of chairs out of the way so Mab could take its place.

Steve leaned back in the second metal chair gently, testing its sturdiness before relaxing into it. "I like sitting out here."

Mab backed into the open spot left by the absent chair and crossed her arms tightly around her middle, trying to keep a little heat from escaping. "I do too when it's not forty degrees."

He honestly hadn't noticed that autumn had arrived so briskly and that it might be a little too cold for others. Steve shrugged off his jacket without really thinking about it. He froze halfway through offering it to Mab. His brain stumbled over the presumptive gesture, and he found he didn't know whether or not that was still something that was a nice gesture or now too antiquated to be mentioned.

Mab saved him, reaching out the rest of the way and taking the proffered jacket. "Thanks." She smiled as she draped it around her shoulders. It wasn't the broad and beaming smile that she showed to fill the awkward social moments but failed to reach her eyes. This smile started behind her eyes and spread like a heavy morning mist rising from the cold ground.

She turned her attention away from him and out at the mostly-empty park. The city hadn't completely emerged from the storm yet. There was the usual rattle of tires over manhole covers and honking of irritated drivers, but the air still smelled clear.

It felt like an appropriate time to talk; to ask questions or share stories, but Steve didn't feel the need. It felt okay to sit in silence, appreciating the silence. A mild breeze shook the trees, scattering heavy remnants of rain on their heads.

"So," Mab broke the silence, "if you had a million dollars, but you had to spend it making something on your own, what would it be?"

Steve wondered if maybe he had missed a conversational segue. "Wh… what?"

"I despise small talk. What would you make?"

Thrown for a loop couldn't begin to describe Steve's thought process at that moment. "I'm gonna need some time to think about that one."

Mab chuffed with laughter. "We can try normal small talk if you prefer; the weather, work, weddings…"

Steve leaped on that. "My best friend is getting married next month."

"Oh? Are you invited?" she asked with a sly smile.

Steve made an offended noise. "Yes, I'm invited - why wouldn't I be?"

Mab shrugged slowly, not meeting his eyes. "Well, if the groom isn't the most handsome, he might not want you giving the bride second thoughts," she whispered conspiratorially.

"They waited a long time for this; the time for second thoughts has passed," he assured.

Mab shivered, adjusting Steve's jacket around her shoulders. "I wouldn't get married in early winter in New York if you _paid _me."

He hummed. "They'd probably agree because it's in Santa Barbara."

"California!?" Mab gasped. "I'm jealous! It's supposed to start snowing soon. You'll miss out on all the great sledding, though. That hill between 102nd and 103rd is amazing."

"I grew up in Brooklyn, so Miller Hill was my favorite." He paused, thinking back. "Now that I think about it I'm pretty sure I broke my arm on that hill when I was ten."

Mab laughed as she pulled the collar of his jacket higher to protect against a chilling breeze.

"Coffee?" Steve offered, starting to stand.

"Oh, I'd love some!"

"Don't go anywhere."

"I'll break out the wheel chocks," she replied.

A contented grin stayed on his face as he stood in line at the pop-up coffee shop on the far corner of the park. It moved quickly, and the barista seemed bored at his simple order of two plain coffees. They were dispensed from little better than a vat and handed over with little ceremony after he paid.

"Do you have cream?" he asked as an afterthought.

The barista jerked her head to the left. "Around the corner."

Doing his best to remember the exact color of Mab's coffee from before, Steve took his time adding cream to her cup and stirring it with a little plastic stick. When he was fairly certain he'd gotten it just right - or as good as it was going to get - he put the lid back on and retraced his steps through the park.

True to her word, Mab hadn't moved an inch in his absence. She looked out at the open park space, fingers plucking along the sleeves of his borrowed jacket.

"I hope I got the ratio right.," he said as he handed her the coffee.

She sipped at it delicately. "It's perfect. What do I owe you?"

"Don't worry about it."

"That's two for two," Mab said, pointing at him threateningly. "Next time it's on me."

Steve changed the subject. "Do you know your socks don't match?" He wasn't certain in the dim lighting of the library's stacks, but in the outdoors, he was certain that she was wearing one navy sock and one purple.

"I'm aware." She shot him an amused sidelong glance. "I wanted both colors, so I wore both." Her phone rang and she jumped slightly, pulling it out of her pocket and sighing at the screen. "I'm sorry, I have to take this."

"David?" she answered. She jerked the phone away from her ear as a loud voice streamed through the other end. She held it a few inches away from her ear to be safe as she tried to interject. "Slow down, what came in the-" she paused, listening. "So it's-" she sighed. "You know what, I'm headed home. Try not to panic before I get back. We'll figure it out."

She hung up even as the speaker continued, effectively cutting them off. "I have to go. Either my uncle is on fire or his computer is; I can't be certain." She shrugged off Steve's jacket and tossed it over the table. "Thank you for letting me borrow that."

"Should I-?" he was halfway through standing when Mab pointed at him threateningly, so he sat back down.

"You stay and enjoy the park, sir!" she ordered. "It's a wonderful day now, and you have a book to enjoy."

"Yes, ma'am," Steve answered with a smile.

She nodded decisively, working her way back onto concrete and making her way back to the bus stop. She waved idly before turning the last corner like she wasn't sure how else to say goodbye.

He could feel the noise of the world pressing in again, the thoughts of his responsibilities crowding to the forefront of his mind. He just wanted one more minute of peace.

A question suddenly occurred to Steve and he, for some reason, didn't feel like it could wait. He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen, indecision holding him back for a moment. But as he tapped Mab's number and lifted the phone to his ear his chest was filled with a tender eagerness and not weighty dread.

"_Miss me already?"_ she answered.

"What would you make?" he asked.

"_The million?"_ she asked, picking up on the question's meaning. "_I'd learn to forge blades, buy a bunch of meteors, and make a sword of star-steel."_

"That's…" he paused, "a really good answer."

"_Thanks,"_ she laughed. The faint whine of brakes cut through the call. "_My bus is here,_" she said.

"I guess I should let you go," he added.

"_Probably. I can't drive this thing one-handed. Listen," _her end crackled as she adjusted the phone, "_let me know when you've got an answer, okay? I want to hear what you come up with."_

"Okay," he agreed, leaning back in the park's metal chair.

"_Okay,"_ she repeated. "_Bye, Steve."_

"Bye, Mab." He lowered the phone, pressing the red indicator to hang up the call. He set the phone on his stack of books on the table and looked out at the city.

He couldn't think of a single thing. He'd spent a lot of time on the internet catching up with the world, learning about leaps and bounds accomplished by the generations that had followed him. They'd figured out solutions to problems he'd never considered to be issues, only annoyances. They'd made new problems and solved those, too.

But it didn't have to be for the whole world, he thought suddenly. Mab's answer had been purely selfish - something that she wanted for herself and wanted to learn to make. What did he want?

Steve's phone rang, derailing the train of thought. The caller ID read _Compound. _He stood, gathering his books and his jacket as he held the phone to his ear. "Rogers," he barked into the phone, all moments of peace left behind, sitting alone at a table with only one chair and looking out on a storm-washed park.

* * *

Paul stared down at the pink slip under the empty glass on the bar. A ring of condensation was slowly turning it into a pulpy mess, tearing the middle out as he lifted the glass for a refill. The buzz of alcohol wasn't helping to dim the anger and the fear he felt about being fired.

_Destruction of City Property_, the slip still sort of read. _Wanton disregard for training practices, resulting in damage of equipment, _his boss had yelled, waving the slip in his face.

Amber filled his glass and the bartender eyed him carefully, judging whether or not it was time to cut him off. But Paul wasn't ready to go home yet. How would he face his wife? She'd be furious at the news; how would they pay the mortgage? Their home-equity loan payment was due in two weeks, too. Would the electric get cut off the second they missed a payment, or would they be able to keep things running a little longer?

Paul downed the glass and the heat of the bourbon filled the fearfully cold place in his chest. He couldn't tell Janice; he'd just have to figure out a plan on his own.

* * *

A/N: Hey friends! I figured out what I wanted to do with my last loose plot point for this story, so hopefully, that'll make it a little easier to write. This chapter is a BEAST but I really didn't want to break it up. Mab and Steve are both incredibly complicated, and I wanted to give them time to have a long interaction that clearly lends itself to them both deciding they want to choose to meet again.

**My thoughts on reviews:** I've been having a hard time finding the motivation to write, so I actually went back through WIAS and RITD and reread all the old reviews. I loved seeing your support through the last few years - people you loved and people you hated, your reactions to the twists and turns and fluff and angst, your favorite lines and shocked betrayal. So - if you're ever wondering whether or not to ramble along for a sentence or a paragraph in that reviews box, **please do**. When motivation is low I often go back and re-read, and it helps.

I love my reviewers! Nekokairi, cameron1812, huffle-bibin, K Lynx, xEarthAlchemistx, Flours, and LucyBlue!

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	10. The Poet(s) Laureate

The old family cuckoo clock ticked along the hall, hiccuping out moments in time rapidly transforming the present into the past. Interrupting the vivid silence like little jabs of a needle poked through fabric in search of a buttonhole.

The small kitchen of the brownstone had an even smaller kitchen table, accompanied by just two rickety chairs. Mab shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the creaking irritating but also grounding.

Across from her, David tapped his fingers nervously on the table and Mab felt a flash of an impulse to swat at his hands, but instead curled her hands together into a woven net. Restrained, composed, she mulled over the brief conversation in her head as she still tried to grasp the implications.

Somewhere above their heads, Christine jumped down from a high surface with a skittering of claws on hardwood. David looked up but Mab did not.

Mab looked down at her cold cup of tea, mostly abandoned since she had sat down at the table some thirty minutes prior. "Okay." Mab steepled her fingers under her chin, giving her uncle an appraising stare. "Okay. Let me make sure I've got this straight."

She paused a long time, running the situation through her head like trying to do a puzzle in her head without touching the pieces. "So, when you told me about the Poet Laureate program and I told you I wasn't interested, you went to apply for just yourself."

David nodded. "That's right."

She rubbed at her face, hand covering her mouth for a moment as she turned her gaze down to the table. "But at some point you decided I should also be applying, so you tried to do it for me. And," Mab took a long-suffering breath, releasing it slowly in an attempt to calm herself before continuing, "in doing that you accidentally submitted _my _poem… with _your_ name."

"...right," David confirmed.

Mab nodded slowly. "And it won."

"And it won."

It should have been an exciting feeling.

But Mab reigned herself in. She pulled in the quick thrill of joy at the briefest confirmation of the music of her soul.

"When do they want to hear back?"

"Today. There's supposed to be a reception next Friday so they need time to get everything printed, and…" David trailed off, picking up again with a swift breath and heightened energy; "I'm sure if I just let them know there was a mistake-"

Mab cut him off with a sharp raise of her hand. "They don't care, David. They're just going to see plagiarism and revoke the offer." She tapped her fingers against the table. "You should take the offer."

David looked aghast. "But it's your poem!"

"I'm not a poet anymore, remember? I'm an editor. And as an editor that frequently reviews your work I'm telling you to take the job, and take the money, because you need it." She stood quickly, the legs of her chair scraping against the tile floor. She paused in the doorway, fingers trailing long the woodgrain. "Which one was it?"

"Which one… ?"

Mab nodded her head. "My poem - which one won the contest?"

"Oh - _Prayer for Parity._" David grimaced.

"Of course." She laughed harshly, sweeping from the room with a bitter taste in her mouth. "_Ten pounds more_." She needed to retreat, to process the strange feeling that felt so much like grief but carried the absolute weight of crushing disappointment in its arms.

Mab paused halfway up the stairs, panting heavily as she fought for meaningful air. Rather than waiting until she properly caught her breath she forged onwards, forcing her way up the stairs. The world spun a bit as she reached the top and she was forced to press a hand to the walls to make sure she didn't tip backward down the stairs again.

She made it to her crowded room without incident, narrowly avoiding tripping over a still yet unopened box from her move into the brownstone to unceremoniously flop over onto her bed.

Her comforter had lost the smell of home. It had smelled like the expensive detergent her mother had loved - a little luxury in the pile of bills - and the sun-dried crispness that she'd savored. Now it smelled like the dust that collected in the corners and a bit of Christine's fur.

She lay face-down on her bed for an indeterminate length of time, liens from her poem ringing hollowly in her ears. _Ten pounds more._ Her whole body felt heavy; overburdened, overtaxed, overdrawn.

A weight settled on the bed next to her. "I really am very sorry, Mab," David offered his condolences.

"I know," she mumbled into her comforter. She turned her head to look at her uncle. "I just don't think there's a better representation of irony in my life."

David held out a glass of water and a handful of pills - she must have lain in bed for hours if he was offering her evening medications. "They want a draft of my remarks by tonight. Do you think… you could... help me?"

"Of course," Mab reassured, sitting up and downing her pills with a quick swig of water. "What do you have so far?" she asked.

David handed her a lined notepad with a single line remaining among many that had been crossed out: _Ladies and Gentlemen of the September Foundation…_

Mab looked up, amusement scrawled on her face. "That's all you have?"

He snatched the pad of paper from her hands, spluttering in embarrassment. "You of all people should know that I can't write under pressure!"

Laughable, but in a way that lightened her burden, Mab wondered how different certain parts of her upbringing would have been if she hadn't lived so far away from her uncle. He was just this stereotypical writer; slightly overweight, sporting a respectably bushy moustache and beard, holed up in an old brownstone surrounded by his books and his grouchy, unlovable pet.

"I'm sorry," Mab said gently, holding out a gentle hand for the pad of paper, "I shouldn't have made fun. May I?"

David surrendered the paper slowly, but quickly handed Mab a pen from across the room when she asked.

"Did you have a good morning, at least?" he asked, smoothing his beard in what she was learning was his most common nervous tic.

"Yeah. I did." Mab smiled, clicking her green pen a few times. "Okay. Let's get to work."

* * *

Another day, another gray autumn day that lingered on the edge of brutal New York winters, Mab swept through her bedroom in search of the right set of earrings to match her purple gown.

Excitement and anticipation yielded a frenetic set of movements, Mab throwing papers left and right until she could open the right box and find her mother's amethyst drop earrings. "Found you, bastards!" Mab declared.

She stepped into her dress shoes, hidden under the long cascade of beaded silk, and gave an experimental twirl to make sure she wouldn't trip on the hem. Her bedroom tilted slightly and Mab held out an arm for extra balance. She didn't want to trip and crack her head on something right before attending David's Poet Laureate reception.

"Mab!" David yelled from the kitchen, "the car is here, have you seen my glasses?"

The aforementioned car honked from the street, the driver evidently not willing to come up the stoop and ring the doorbell in the light rain painting the street in watercolor.

"Check the mantle!" Mab called from the upstairs landing, trying to get the earrings properly seated in her ear without falling down the stairs.

"Found them!" David called, lowering his voice as Mab descended the stairs. "Oh, don't you look lovely!"

Mab curtsied on the bottom step, more of a bob than anything, enjoying the clicker-clack of beads on the wood floor as her dress skimmed the floor. "Thank you; it was mom's but it fits me pretty well."

"Purple was her favorite," David sighed wistfully. He pressed a hand to his heart. "You look so much like Andrea."

Mab coughed to clear the tightness from her chest, but David putting a hand on his heart seemed to draw attention to the item he was missing. "You forgot a tie, David!" Mab laughed. "Hang on, I'll get one from upstairs."

She jogged up the steps, the heavy beading of her dress whispering around her legs. As she reached the top of the stairs the floor began pitching slightly side to side, and her skin prickled with cold.

She stumbled, her feet tripping over the memory of how to navigate stairs, and she crashed down on the upper landing. THe beading of her dress dug into her knees like crouching down on a bed of rice.

Mab could hear her uncle calling her, and could only vaguely see the concern in his eyes as he helped her to her world made more sense close to the ground, but she was overly aware of the gasping breaths she was trying to take and the burning ache in her chest.

David guided her back to her bedroom, his arm a protective railing as she eased down to sit on her bed. He waved a hand in front of her face, made her count fingers as he held them up.

Mab was struck with an odd sense of deja vu mixed with painful longing. Another day in the rain, another day between narrow stacks of books, another concerned face close to hers and a warmth of spirit too genuine to deny.

She pushed David's hand away from her face, declaring with some difficulty "I'm fine; we need to get into the car or it'll leave without us."

But David caught her arm as she sat up and immediately pitched to one side. She was panting from the exertion, screwing her eyes shut as nausea bubbled up with vertigo. "Mab, I think you need to stay home."

She knew he was right, of course, but that didn't make it hurt any less to hear. A burden, again. Something that needed to be left at the side of the road to make sure that David, at least, could reach the finish line. "You have to promise to tell me all about it," she insisted, frustrated tears welling up in her eyes.

The car honked from the street, the driver hired by the September Foundation clearly growing impatient.

"I'll be right back." David squeezed her hand as he helped her lean back again. "I'll tell the driver I'll be out just as soon as I get some medicine for you."

Mab rubbed at her face, wiping away the beginnings of her tears of self-pity, taking deep breaths to steady herself as David trotted down the stairs. She was going to have to be the strong one here; her uncle wasn't the type to make hard choices like this was about to demand.

Deep breaths calmed her churning stomach as David returned with the overflowing plastic box of medications, some older than her tenancy in New York, some newly filled.

David looked back and forth between the collection of bottles, distress growing in his face with every passing moment as he tried to consult Mab's dense medical guidelines and seemingly found no clarity.

"How did Andrea keep this all straight…?" he mumbled.

Mab shrugged. "I'm pretty sure she followed her gut. Every doctor I've ever had gave a different opinion, so she just sort of merged them into her version of best practice."

That didn't seem to give him any comfort, and her uncle seemed hesitant to give her anything.

The car honked; longer and more insistent this time. Mab patted David's hands, still trying to decide between medications. "I'm sure it's just the end of the Cipro," Mab reassured. "It did this last time, too. Just leave the box and I'll take something if it gets worse."

"Are you sure?" David asked, already moving to stand, "because I can cancel if you need me to stay."

"Don't you dare!" Mab cried, startling him. "We worked _hard_ on that speech, and you had better not give them any reason to ask _any_ questions!"

"You're right." David gulped, clearly following the train of thought. "Call me if you need _anything_, okay?"

"Go, go!" Mab replied, swatting him away.

He chuckled at her enthusiasm, likely taking it as a sign that all was truly well, and bid her goodbye from the stairs. She made sure to listen for the jingle of keys as he left, and the rattle of the deadbolt turning.

The townhouse fell quiet save for the light rumble of rain on the roof above.

Mab rolled onto her left side, trying to keep the nausea from bubbling up higher in her chest. The narrow window looked out into a slim alley; her view restricted to the neighbor's brick wall and a little fall of rain.

_All that I can carry, ten pounds more._

The storm grew stronger, painting the barely-dotted bricks a deeper red and running long rivers down the window. Mab stared blankly out the window, waiting for the water to pour through the window, to fill the room, to swallow her in ice-cold ripples of liquified time.

Mab rolled onto her back and rubbed at her face. She could feel the lingering marks of her pitiful tears. This was nothing new, she'd missed out on things before because she couldn't keep up; she shouldn't have let it upset her this much.

Mab reached blindly for her phone on her bedside table and checked the time, only to find that she'd been staring out the window for over an hour. David would have started his acceptance speech already.

Mab swiped through her short list of apps, not really settling anywhere in an idle disinterest. Her eyes flickered to the window, wondering to herself. She tapped on the screen like she might tap on a table, and accidentally pressed the name of the contact twice, commanding the phone to dial while she was distracted.

"Shit!" she swore, rushing to end the call before it connected.

Too late, the receiving end of the call picked up, answering with a brusque, "_Yeah."_

Mab stared at the screen, confused. She had accidentally called Steve, and the voice was definitely not Steve. "Uh, is this Steve's phone?"

The smooth female voice answered again. "_It is." _The line sat silent, and while whoever answered the phone didn't speak any more or clarify anything at all, Mab could hear distant and muffled conversation.

"Can… can I talk to him?" she mumbled.

"_Sure,"_ the woman purred. "_What's your name?"_

"Mab. Mab Dumont." She nearly stumbled over her own name.

"_Mab,"_ the woman repeated slowly, turning the name over like an insect to be examined. "_Do you know, Mab Dumont?"_

"Do I know… what?" She frowned.

"_Do you know?" _the woman repeated.

It took her a minute, but Mab finally realized who she was talking to. She'd heard the voice only once, during Congressional hearings about two years ago.

The Black Widow.

Mab gulped, screwing up the remnants of courage inside her. "Yes. I know." It would be useless to lie.

"_How long?" _the Widow asked.

"Since we met. I'm not blind." That made the widow chuckle for a moment and Mab felt quite proud of that.

"_If I see anything in the news about secrets or scandals do you know whose door I'll be knocking on?" _The threat wasn't even veiled.

"Mine. And I wouldn't - I won't!" Mab declared.

The Widow seemed interested. "_Why not? You can make a lot of money that way."_

"Because…" Mab searched for the right words to express the utter horror and self-loathing the mere concept inspired. "Because then he'd never get to be just _Steve_ ever again."

The answering side was silent. Mab chewed on her lip, wondering if she had said the right thing.

"_Steve!"_ the Widow called faintly on her end. "_Call for you."_

Mab let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in a big rush, relieved that she'd passed whatever test the Widow had been applying.

The phone made a distressed sound as it changed hands on the other end of the connection, and Mab's heart raced instantly as Steve finally spoke. "_Mab?"_

"Hi," she said with a wan smile, not that he could see it. "Am I interrupting something?"

"_Just some hand-to-hand practice ." _He wasn't even breathing fast. "_Everything okay?"_

"It's stupid, but…" How could she begin to describe the reason for her call? A terrible few days had led to an even worse one, and she was all but confined to her bed in a sea of self-pity.

But Steve had the perfect answer. "_It's raining."_

It was raining, and she was laying on her bed in a dress her mom had once worn to a party back when things had been more normal. It was raining, and Mab couldn't begin to describe the Herculean effort it would take for her to sit up and change into anything else. It was raining, and the universe seemed to be laughing at her pain. "Yeah."

"_You know,"_ the background noise faded, "_you can call when it's not raining."_

"I don't want to bother you. You're doing important stuff - secret military contractor stuff."

"_Trust me, you're not." _Mab could hear a gentle click of a door closing on Steve's end. "_It's been a long day."_

Mab could only imagine. "It's going around, then."

"_What happened?"_ he asked gently.

"I…" Mab choked a bit on her words. "Have you ever had anything happen that just perfectly illustrates that God has a terrible sense of humor?"

"_Yes._" He chuckled, and Mab remembered who she was talking to and felt immediately horrible. Of course he would understand; he was _the man out of time_, and here she was feeling sorry for herself over missing a party.

Mab set her head down on the table and inwardly groaned. "Can we talk about something else?"

"_Sure,"_ Steve said, "_read any good books lately?"_

Mab chuffed. "You joke, but the answer is no - I'm proofreading this terrible, uh… there's no good description for it except that a few pages in I half expected it to be written in crayon."

"_Is that... bad?"_

"Hang on, let me find it." Mab switched the phone to her other ear so she could hold it in place with her shoulder.

She rolled over, using her free hand to blindly rifle around through a stack of manuscripts on the floor next to her bed until she found the aforementioned disaster. "Alright - so this book is supposed to be an in-depth analysis of the Russian Revolution, but listen to this."

Mab cleared her throat and began to read. "_Although many Russians wanted a revolution, no one expected it to happen when and how it did. On Thursday, February 23, 1917, women left work in their Petrograd factories _\- Petrograd is misspelled, by the way - _and flooded the street in protest. The following day, more than 150,000 men and women took to the street. Numbers increased the following days until by Saturday no one was working. Czar Nicholas II _\- which is somehow also misspelled - _was not in Petrograd at the time but heard reports of protests, which he did not take seriously even as incidents of police and soldiers firing into the crowds soon became reports of mutiny. By March, it was obvious that the Czar's rule was over."_

Mab tossed the manuscript down and rubbed at her eyes. "Typos aside, did that stunning and moving paragraph give you any idea why people were revolting, or why it was so clear that Czar Nicholas was forced to abdicate?"

There was an odd sound on Steve's end, but it cut short fairly quickly as Steve spoke. "_Not a clue."_

"Exactly. That… vague nonsense," she sighed, "is supposed to be the crux of whatever point he was waffling toward."

He hummed. "_Sounds like you've got a lot of work ahead of you to try and help fix it." _

"Tell me about it. It's never-ending." Mab rested her head against the headboard of her bed, watching as Christine skulked past her open bedroom door, yowling faintly around a toy in her mouth that she carried around the empty hall. "This must sound painfully banal; oh crocodile tears, the editor is upset that she has to edit. But enough about me," Mab pivoted, "what did you think of The Martian Chronicles?"

A static-like sound indicated a rough sigh. "_Kind of grim, actually. Like… we keep making the same mistakes over and over, and we can't see it until it's too late."_

Mab bobbed her head and regretted it as a bit of vertigo came screaming back. She bit her tongue to distract from the rising nausea, which made for an unpleasant pause before she could safely speak without fear of throwing up. "Yes, well; welcome to Science Fiction. That's pretty much the running theme."

Having picked up on a sour peeve in her mind, she continued, rambling; "I think all reading should devastate us a little. Whether it's by making us yearn for the better parts of a life we can't have, or a desperate appreciation for the little pieces we do. It's the music and the art that pick up other pieces of our souls. I wish…" Mab stopped herself, realizing she had gone on a bit of a tangent.

"_What?"_ Steve asked.

Mab shook her head. "It's beyond silly and doesn't warrant mentioning, and besides; I should let you go."

"_Tell me what you were going to say first," _he insisted.

Even though he had no way of seeing her flushed face, Mab worried it was somehow translated into her voice. "I wish we were just a little closer to California, because then I could make you go to this museum by the sea. I've never been there, but I've seen enough pictures and read about it, and… it would be so amazing. They have this pipe organ built into the structure of the foyer, so when you step into the museum you can walk inside the music."

He didn't say anything as she trailed off and Mab grew self-conscious. "Steve? Are you there?" She checked the phone to make sure she hadn't been accidentally disconnected, and nearly missed his reply.

"_It sounds beautiful."_

Mab's face was too warm. "I should let you go. I've used up enough time waxing poetic about the arts. I'm sure you need to go show someone how not to break their hand on someone's face."

"_We've got that part pretty well covered. Before you go, can I ask you something?"_

"Of course."

"_About this million dollars…"_

Mab had to laugh. "Okay, what about it? Have you figured out what you would do?"

Steve's tone changed a little, like someone leaning into conversation with interest. "_I need a little help. Why can't I just buy things and leave it at that? I could definitely give away a million dollars-"_

"Absolutely not!" Mab ordered. "You have to make something - something for yourself. Figure out how to be selfish, Steve."

"_I'll be honest - that's a little out of my wheelhouse." _He didn't sound deterred, even as he said otherwise.

Mab smirked. "Then a thought exercise is the perfect place to start."

"_How'd you do it?"_

"Me? I'm a perfect human being with no flaws whatsoever. It was entirely easy for me," she snarked.

"_Yeah, your modesty puts all others to shame," _he sarcastically agreed.

"Exactly. I'm glad you understand." The odd sound from before repeated on Steve's end. "What _is_ that sound?"

"_That would be a few very nosy coworkers continually checking on why I'm not at training," _Steve said. "_They kept trying to interrupt so I locked the door. So… they're picking the lock."_

"Oh my god, that's too much!" Mab laughed heartily, the image of a cluster of Avengers crouched in front of a door, spying through a peephole too hilarious to forget. "I'll let you go now, for real. Please tell them I said 'hello' even though we've never met."

"_Absolutely not,"_ Steve said, "_that would only encourage them."_

Mab laughed harder, fighting hard against it turning into a cough. "Go, Steve! God only knows what they'll do if I don't let you go."

"_Fine, but promise me something." _The seriousness of his tone had her heart skipping dangerously.

"O-okay," Mab stammered.

"_Don't wait until it's raining to call me again."_

"Okay," Mab agreed, her cheeks warming further.

"_Good. Bye, then."_

"Bye, then," Mab repeated.

She hung up and let the phone slip from her fingers and bounce against the bed. Mab pressed her hands to her face, giggling like a much younger girl as she tried to pat the heat away with her cold hands.

She rolled onto her side to look at the rain falling against her bedroom window. The storm was showing no signs of letting up and Mab couldn't care less. The beading of her mother's dress pressed uncomfortably into her hip, and Mab couldn't care less. The room grew dark as evening drew long, and the only light coming into the room came from a streetlamp at the end of the alley, casting fluctuating shadows through the ripples of water on her window, and Mab couldn't care less.

Rain had become this huge barrier in her life - the curbs and gutters both literal and metaphorical always grew swampy when it rained. Too difficult to manage around, she had learned to avoid the tough times when it rained.

But today, she was happy it had rained.

* * *

**A/N:** And that's ten! Ten chapters in is usually my first "turning point" for stories. So what foreshadowing have you caught so far? I think I've just about foreshadowed about three-quarters of the major plot twists, and the other quarter will come before the next turning point. **Tell me in your review what you think you've spotted!**

To jump ahead of one question I'm sure is coming: yes, _Prayer for Parity_ is a "real" poem for this story. It's fully written, and I'll be dropping bits here and there before you get it in its full context in a future chapter.

I love my reviewers! LisaPark, Xanderseye1, cHoCoLaTe-RuM, Flours, K Lynx, LucyBlue, huffle bibin, inperfection, cameron1812, and nekokairi!

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	11. Outflow and the Eye

Ambrose listened to Paul's story with the appropriate grunts and shakes of his head and bought Paul a second and third round when he'd finished his first. "What amazes me is that you, of all people, can't find a job in this town." Ambrose looked down into his beer like it held all the answers. "Have you tried Jersey?"

Paul downed the last of his beer. "Yeah. And Long Island, and even Staten Island."

Ambrose grunted. "You're fucked."

"Tell me about it. I gotta stay out of the house all day or else Janice is gonna ask questions."

"You don't think she's gonna ask questions when the Sheriff puts your family out on the curb?"

"Can I just drink a beer in peace?" Paul knew that the criticism was likely to be coming from somewhere, and as much as he didn't like getting chewed out by his old friend it was better than getting a disappointed lecture from his wife.

"I'm just saying." Ambrose shrugged, scratching at his beard. "Listen, a guy told me about this medical trial that's supposed to pay big bucks. It's fifty bucks for the first blood test, and every step you qualify for after that pays more." Ambrose fished around in his wallet for a wrinkly card. "I got rejected after the first round, but fifty bucks is fifty bucks."

"Thanks." Paul felt more than a little sheepish taking the card. It felt like admitting that he was so down on his luck and desperate that, yes, fifty bucks could make a difference. He folded the card in half even though it would have fit just fine in his wallet without folding. He didn't want to look at it while still enjoying the buzz from his drinks. He'd think about it tomorrow. "So… who've they got in my seat?"

Ambrose groaned in dismay. "That's the shit; nobody! Hiring freeze or some garbage like that. The city's swimming in it and they'd rather have the bus sitting in the lot than pay someone to drive it. It's ridiculous."

Paul could relate. "I swear, these suit-and-tie idiots have no idea how this city actually runs."

"No kidding," Ambrose agreed. "This city, let me tell you."

* * *

_March along, sing our song, with the Army of the free_

_Count the brave, count the true, who have fought to victory_

_We're the Army and proud of our name_

_We're the Army and proudly proclaim_

* * *

The elevator hummed quietly as it ascended the huge tower, curiously absent of the usual elevator music. Hasn't been turned back on, maybe? It felt strange for Steve to be back at the tower for more than a few hours.

Secretary Ross had been monumentally displeased about the Avengers response time and had evidently called Tony at some ungodly hour in the morning to insist that those heroes on-shift stay in the city. So, the old tower was going to become something like a firehouse bunk, and shifts changing out every four days.

Steve had gotten so used to living upstate. He had gotten used to the changing seasons and the rotating recruits who walked through the door with stars in their eyes. At the tower, he'd been greeted by stacks of discarded cardboard and styrofoam packing material as exhausted teams worked long hours to get the building ship-shape for service.

The elevator doors hissed open with barely a sound, even after many months of disuse. The faint hum of ambient noise still penetrated the glass twenty stories up. Steve dropped his duffel in a chair as he walked into the open common space. "I don't remember it being so loud up here."

Natasha grinned over a bowl of ice cream from a comfortable perch on the kitchen island. "You haven't missed the sweet siren-song of midtown traffic?"

"You get used to it again after a night," Rhodey chimed in from a brand-new sofa next to the wide stretch of windows. It still had a little bit of styrofoam attached with static cling.

Fiddling with a screwdriver and making a frustrated face at a piece of tech, Tony chimed in; "I'll add soundproofing to the ever-lengthening to-do list being written by my ungrateful colleagues, even after I managed to talk Ross down from a _literal_ Soviet-Era red telephone."

Steve grimaced at the thought. "Thank you, Tony, for getting this set up so quickly."

"Have any fun plans for the weekend?" Natasha asked innocently. "Since there's no Sunday Dinner at the farm this week."

"I've got a pile of paperwork with my name on it," Steve answered.

"Fixed it. Stop getting it wet." Tony tossed the repaired armband to Natasha and walked to the kitchen, presumably for a cup of coffee. The man seemed to run on coffee and not at all on food. "Pick a car, Cap; drive around somewhere exciting - pick up a strange woman and do something I might do."

"What about Mab? She seems nice." Natasha asked innocently, scraping the inside of her bowl with a spoon.

"I'm sorry; who or what is _Mab?"_ Tony asked, aghast. "Are you keeping secrets, Rogers?"

"Please tell me you didn't interrogate her when you picked up my phone - and we need to have a talk about boundaries!" Steve exclaimed, but Natasha's grin only widened.

Tony tilted his head. "Friday, Steve is hiding things; get me his messages and-"

"What did I _just_ say?" Steve exclaimed.

"Alright, nobody panic, but I think something's up with the rooms," Sam said, walking into the shared kitchen, "because mine is a lot smaller than it is upstate."

"That's because your room used to be a closet," Rhodey called over his magazine, turning a page lazily.

Sam spluttered in dismay. "You own the whole damn building and I couldn't get a real room?"

"It could be worse. We could've asked you to roost with the pigeons on the roof." Natasha clapped Sam on the shoulder. "See you in four days."

* * *

_First to fight for the right,_

_And to build the Nation's might,_

_And The Army Goes Rolling Along_

_Proud of all we have done,_

_Fighting till the battle's won,_

_And the Army Goes Rolling Along._

* * *

_Section 3, Subsection 1: Funding of Sokovia Accords to be managed by an oversight committee, composed of members from at least five participating countries, with no more than two members from any single country._

_Section 3, Subsection 2: The Sokovia Accords Funding Committee shall arrange for quarterly review of all expenses…_

Steve set the stack down, unable to read any more. He braved a glance at the clock on his bedside table - lonely there if not for the red-covered novel Mab had recommended. He would be out of excuses not to return it to the library, being only a few blocks away now.

Standing, he dropped the Sokovia Accord printouts into a pile in a spare chair. The room smelled like off-gassing foam, and it was creeping through his sheets and giving him a headache.

He needed exercise - something to clear his head and maybe make a dent in his pent-up energy. A pulse of excitement drove him to motion as he remembered that, for all its shortcomings, the tower had always been equipped with a spectacular gym.

Perfectly polished floors didn't creak as Steve made his way towards the elevator in the dead of night, and the freshly cleaned windows let the city's ambient light wash across the room with tender breath.

"Tenth floor," he asked quietly as the elevator doors closed.

"_Tenth floor,"_ the quiet computer confirmed.

Tony had built a fairly spectacular workout room for his favorite collection of heroes that could just about keep up with their demands, though the punching bags were swapped out fairly regularly. The treadmill could crack sixty or seventy miles per hour if you really cranked it.

The doors opened and Steve's spirits fell. Where he expected to see a wide array of equipment all waiting for his impatient and energetic arrival, instead tape marked the floor where the equipment was meant to be standing.

Of course, Steve sighed internally, they'd only just begun to move back into that towering building. If a mattress and a chair had just barely arrived for his first four-day shift, it wasn't reasonable to expect that something as frivolous as a treadmill would be there, too.

He briefly considered trying to go for a run around the city - something, _anything_, to let out his pent up energy - but Tony had been none-too-pleased with the media frenzy that had followed, nor the adoring masses that had gathered around the building; all vying for a brief glimpse of their heroes.

The elevator doors closed without him ever having got off.

"_Which floor, Captain?" _Friday asked.

Steve took a calming breath. "Back to my quarters, please."

The alarm rang between floors, removing the need for distracting exercise.

* * *

_Then it's Hi! Hi! Hey!_

_The Army's on its way._

_Count off the cadence loud and strong_

_For where e'er we go,_

_You will always know_

_That The Army Goes Rolling Along._

* * *

There was a musty smell developing in the air of the Raft. Something wet and stale that had been half-covered by air scrubbers working on overtime but just failing to keep up properly. It grew stronger the deeper he went; like something deep in the bowels of the floating prison was blossoming foul flowers.

As he spent long hours checking in with guards, command, and a few individual prisoners, the smell would fade from his radar. But every time he came back, there it was again with reinforcements.

"Steve! Join us for a hand," Mrs. Ellis invited with a wave, holding up a hand of playing cards. What was it about people that, when idle with a deck of cards around, humanity always defaulted to playing cards?

He was unable to resist her enthusiastic beckonings, but admitted, "I really shouldn't." He almost hoped for a mental excuse to refuse - any hostility from anyone else at the table, or a summons from Sam or a guard - but none appeared.

She scoffed, like it didn't matter to her that she was a prisoner and he was responsible for keeping her there. She nodded to an empty bench at the table, insisting. "C'mon - who's gonna tell you you can't?"

No one, evidently.

Steve sat at the table, one ear half-listening to conversation in the surprisingly cheery group while he kept an eye on the rest of the mess hall. It was largely what he expected from a prison, with a few notable exceptions.

Even with suppressors glittering and humming on every prisoner's wrist the guards kept ample distance; watching from catwalks above and only descending to the prisoners' level when absolutely necessary.

For the most part, however, the prisoners seemed fairly calm and in good spirits. Playing cards and mild exercise seemed to be favored activities, with nearly everyone forgetting the incidences of violence that led to his team being called in.

"Who is that?" Steve asked, nodding towards the far end of the mess hall. Walking in a casual circle around the edge, flanked by two much larger men, the older man looked like he was out for a stroll in the park. He smiled easily at everyone he passed, who seemed eager to get out of his way with a speed that implied physical threat, even though Steve couldn't see one.

Mrs. Ellis looked up from her cards. "That's Mr. Volkov. Ivan. Don't ask me what his deal is - I haven't the foggiest idea." She dropped a card and tapped the table for a new one. "He's quite a character, I can tell you that much."

"He bother you?"

"Me? No, he's very polite to everyone. If anyone bothers me it's Lukas here."

"_Hey!"_ her friend protested with a gasp of dismay.

"You won't find any trouble here, Captain." The Aztec shuffled his cards briefly before laying them down, eliciting groans of complaint from Russo and Mrs. Ellis. "No matter what they've told you."

"What do you mean by that?" Steve asked, tensing slightly.

"Miguel! How do you win every time?" Mrs. Ellis cried as the Aztec drew his pile of winnings - a collection of single-serve chip bags - closer with a satisfied smile.

"My turn to deal," he said with a mild smile, taking in the cards and giving them a swiftly skilled shuffle. He tossed cards across the table with practiced ease, dealing Steve in without question. "You playing or watching, Captain?" His dark eyes glittered faintly gold and the suppressor on his wrist hummed shrilly.

It was impossible to miss the clamor of boots on the catwalk behind him - the guards drawn to the sound of a suppressor at its limit - but Steve held up a hand to stop whatever assault was likely imminent.

He held up his hand, leaving it in the air as he considered the message the man across from him was trying to send. Steve's fingers twitched, and settled on the clasp for his helmet. "I'm playing," he said, removing his helmet and setting it on the table.

The distressed screech from the Aztec's suppressor stopped immediately and De Léon smiled, a hand on the deck of cards. "What's your bet, Captain?"

Mrs. Ellis and Russo sat in silence, staring at Steve with the same intense expression as De Léon. What were they trying to say, he wondered? He looked down at his cards: eight of clubs and two of diamonds. "I'm not playing with much," he responded carefully.

"We'll cover you, darling," Russo said, adding four packets of cookies to the middle of the table. "Bet of two for me and the Captain."

"Not much of a bet," De Léon said.

Steve held his gaze. "Nothing in my pockets but my name."

The Aztec danced a card across the table as Lukas knocked for a draw. "Names are important."

Steve met his gaze and could have sworn he saw another glittering of gold, though the suppressor stayed silent. The air between them trembled, shaking with unspoken meaning and an intensity that smothered the musty odor of the Raft.

"Steve." He said it like an offering, like an introduction where he should be holding out an empty hand in a gesture of faith and not one where he was holding cards close to his chest in secrecy.

De Léon smiled. He tossed Steve a card. "Miguel."

"Lukas," Russo said softly, accepting another card.

"Geneva," Mrs. Ellis said, knocking the table.

Miguel tossed her a card.

* * *

_Valley Forge, Custer's ranks,_

_San Juan Hill and Patton's tanks,_

_And the Army went rolling along_

_Minutemen, from the start,_

_Always fighting from the heart,_

_And the Army keeps rolling along._

* * *

At the edge of the skyscraper's landing pad that stretched its hand out over the city, Steve stood suspended between man and God. The cold night air didn't bother him, even as the smell in the air fought with the city scents to promise snow. The last of autumn's colors were fading from Central Park, and had already abandoned the Compound further North.

Steve traced the shapes of the streets below with hands too steady for a man running without sleep. His mind buzzed with a reluctant trepidation; a feeling that behind every corner there would be another fight and sometimes that fight was coming up from behind. He felt like he was walking blindfolded; there must be some greater hand working just beyond his sight. He'd never lived in a world without war, so why should he expect tomorrow to be any different?

He wished he could run. He wished he could reduce the flow of his thoughts to the exact placement of his next step, to the precision behind a punch into a weighted canvas bag, to the brief intervals of enjoyment he could derive from this body he had been given.

Steve looked over the city, listening to the sirens wail and the chorus of horns that answered. Symphony of frustration and simmering resentment. People rushing from place to place and just trying to keep up as the hands ticked past. Hands on clocks, on gas gauges and speedometers, on blood pressure cuffs and tracing rhythms. Hands typing on keyboards and whispering numbers under their breaths. The rhythms and hands beat together, beating people into shapes and heads forced downwards. Submissive obedience in the face of unimaginable _other_.

The question that could haunt anyone haunted Steve. _What if? _He could see the whole of history past and see every choice laid before him like the city streets below. Every turn left could have easily been a right. Every horn was a cry of alarm or a mortar ripping through delicate earth. His history was a city street in New York, and the possibilities a cluster of all the side-streets and turns not taken.

If he turned his head only a little, over the dark river and into the bright boroughs beyond, he could only wonder what lay out in the vast reaches of his future. What turns and detours might lead to future regrets?

An alarm rang, the sound cutting through the low background noise of the city and the whistling winds around him. He turned away from the city and the ponderance of his future. Steve returned to the warmth of the building, already barking orders as his team emerged ready for whatever challenge they were being sent forth to conquer.

But the thoughts always returned, waiting in the moments of pause and ringing like the single bell that sets off the cacophony. The bell rang, silence impossible, singing: _what if?_

_What if?_

* * *

_Then it's Hi! Hi! Hey!_

_The Army's on its way._

_Count off the cadence loud and strong_

_For where e'er we go,_

_You will always know_

_That The Army Goes Rolling Along._

* * *

At least it wasn't raining. That much saving grace was all Steve could ask for as he took off his helmet to rub at his eyes, trying to ease the pressure building behind his eyes. For all the insistence that the heroes live in the city to cut down on response lag, it still took forever for the Raft Transports to arrive in midtown.

"Captain! Captain Rogers!" The call cut through the mild murmurings of Steve's team and the Raft Response team, and it was all he could do not to groan in dismay. _At three in the morning?_

He turned, finding a familiar face coming far too close. "Hunter Jansen, From-"

Steve cut him off sharply. "From the Post-Standard, I remember. You really shouldn't get so close to the landing pad; it's not safe."

"That would make it much easier for you to avoid me, wouldn't it? If you'd just answer a few questions…" The reporter looked so eager, even for the inhuman hour.

Steve wanted very badly to turn the man around and march him back to the street. On the other hand, he knew that would blow up very badly on news websites in under and hour. He gave in. "You have until that transport lands, Mr. Jansen."

The reporter perked up, shoving a recorder in Steve's so fast he had to recoil or else it would have smacked him in the nose. "Right! What would you say is the greatest challenge facing the Avengers these days?"

Steve blinked. Was he serious? "That's your question, Mr. Jansen?" He'd been hounding Steve for weeks to get a quote, and he'd all but given away his question like a parent lobbing a ball underhand to a child for the first time.

"Captain Rogers, I'm here to ask the tough questions!" Mr. Jansen insisted, pushing the recorder closer.

Steve put his hand on it, gently but firmly removing it from his face. It clicked, then; the reporter's eagerness, naivety, and his odd ability to appear whenever Steve or his team were waiting on the landing pad. "Mr. Jansen," he said slowly, trying to peel the bitterness from his tone, "has it ever occurred to you that you're here because you _don't _ask the tough questions?"

* * *

_Men in rags, men who froze,_

_Still that Army met its foes,_

_And the Army went rolling along._

_Faith in God, then we're right,_

_And we'll fight with all our might,_

_As the Army keeps rolling along._

* * *

_Section 14, Subsection 1 : Detainee records are to be maintained by - _Steve rubbed at his eyes as the words started to swim across the page. He needed a run. Or maybe he just needed sleep in a bed that didn't transmit the exterior noise up a metal frame.

He jumped slightly as his phone pinged with a text.

_N: Tony wants me to tell you to behave._

Natasha had attached a link to an online article, but Steve didn't even need to click through the thumbnail to know what it was about. _**Captain America Dismisses Freedom of Press!**_

_S: I'll fix it,_ he replied before immediately tossing his phone onto his nightstand.

He rubbed at his face as his headache intensified. He'd have to figure out exactly _how_ to fix it in the morning. It was impossible to keep up with all the ways he was expected to be a pinnacle of perfection, and it was growing harder every year. He did his best to stay silent around the press and limited his time walking around the city. The last thing he needed was a series of reprimanding phone calls from Tony or the Secretary - he'd been subject to a particularly strong dressing-down after offhandedly mentioning in the presence of recording devices that he enjoyed his days off.

_Captain America_ didn't get days off. _Captain America_ loved freedom and pie and never slept if there was justice to be won. _Captain America_ needed to present as the perfect golden boy who loved everyone except who the government told him to lock up without a trial.

Steve could feel the weight of the world pressing him down into the still too-new bed that still smelled like foam and toxic chemicals. He could hear the world screaming up at him in horns and sirens, but he couldn't understand if they were yelling for his help or yelling at him to leave.

The world screamed and the wind howled. The screams peeled off his false layers, took off the muscles and the strength and left only little Steve, trying to fight off a Hurricane with trembling fists.

Rushing to the center of the Hurricane, falling through intensifying winds that buffeted him like a paper doll, he could feel Death himself reaching out with bony hands. Here it came, at last. Here it came; drawing him in with a promise of rest and a promise of silence.

But the screaming storm clawed at him, battering his mind and his body, drawing him down into the spiraling agony formed of his failures.

* * *

_Then it's Hi! Hi! Hey!_

_The Army's on its way._

_Count off the cadence loud and strong_

_For where e'er we go,_

_You will always know_

_That The Army Goes Rolling Along._

* * *

Steve woke up when his shoulder hit the floor. His breath shuddered and he found himself drenched in sweat. Papers strewn around his bed showed the fight he'd tried to keep up in his sleep, and that he'd lost to the paper but beaten his headboard into submission.

Steve stood, thankfully not needing to disentangle from the sheets this time. He pulled at the covers to strip the bed, but his phone fell to the floor with a distressing crack. He examined the screen hastily, not wanting to have broken the slender device, but as he lifted it the screen glowed with an unread notification.

Not Natasha, not a further chastisement for his poorly-considered comment, but from Mab, three hours ago.

_M: What do you call a duck that's also a doctor?  
M: A Quack  
M: I had to read that terrible joke and now so have you. You're welcome._

Still cold with sweat from the nightmare, Steve stared at the phone's glowing screen and a faint smile ticked at the corner of his lips.

_S: Did you have a good week?_

Steve stared at the little keyboard. That was stupid. Another poorly thought-out comment that made it seem like he was ignoring her weird joke, or any other horrible possibility.

He moved to delete it, but the backspace button was inconveniently right next to the 'send' button, and some technological gremlin decided that his message should be sent. The message sent before he could stop it.

_Shit. _He thought about sending another message, but what if that woke her up? What if the first one woke her?

A little bubble appeared at the corner of the screen - Mab was replying. It vanished. Then it came back. Then it vanished again. _Shit!_

His phone rang and Steve nearly dropped it. "Hello?" he asked quickly.

"_Let me read you the worst sentence ever written by mankind." _Mab's voice was barely distorted by the connection. "_Are you ready?"_

Steve sat down on his bed, holding the phone to his ear. "I'm ready."

Mab cleared her throat. "_For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous with a kiss — a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world's thirstiest gerbil."_

Steve laughed. "That can't be real."

"_It's so real I think my brain is bleeding. The office got me the book as a joke but I think I should just set it on fire to put it out of its misery."_ She didn't ask about why he was awake so late, and he didn't ask her either. They were two candles, afloat in paper boats and drifting downriver.

Steve couldn't think of how to express his appreciation, so he let the question go unasked. "Maybe they were trying to get you to appreciate the works they ask you to read?"

"_Or torture me for my failure to meet deadlines. Here," _Steve could hear a shuffling of paper as Mab changed books, "_it gets worse."_

"Do you have a stack of books around your bed?" he asked teasingly.

"_Don't judge me. I read for a living," _Mab snipped.

He grinned. "Oh, I'm judging."

"_Yeah, and what do you keep at your bedside? Wait - let me guess; it's completely bare except for an alarm clock."_

"You're only half-right."

"_An alarm clock and a book."_

He had to give her that one. "You made me read that book, so that's cheating."

She dismissed his excuse. "_Right, right. Anyway; listen to this one_."

Mab read through a few lines she'd marked in several books, her voice changing as she read in each new narrative voice. Some voices were sad, and single lines enough to break your heart. Other voices adopted accents and he could almost see them parading around in their fictional worlds.

Something about Mab's voice was made for storytelling. In speaking, she maintained a peace with her voice like a calmness of being. A still pool of clear water meant to scry secrets of the universe. But in reading - in translating page to spoken word she came alive; finding a voice in every character and bringing worlds to life just behind closed eyes.

Before too long, Steve leaned back against the headboard. Time drifted away and he sank lower to rest his head on a stack of pillows. He'd stopped responding to Mab's readings, and his breathing had evened as his eyelids drooped lower.

He was fast asleep, phone trapped between his head and the pillow, when Mab gently closed the last book. Even breathing lingered on the edge of gentle snoring, drifting through the connection to his listening friend. Like being the secretive conch whispering sounds of the sea, knowing that a curious ear was cradling the gentle shell and dreaming of distant seas.

"_Sweet dreams, Steve,"_ the sound called through him; a tender voice from another lonely ship sailing on turbulent seas. The storm was carrying him, filling his sails and pushing him forward as he adjusted his sails and used its power to crest the waves and fly.

* * *

A/N: The ominous dread intensifies.

I just need to say, for the record, that I find it wonderfully endearing that _every single one of you_ just wholeheartedly believe and fully accept that Steve will be taking Mab to Bucky and Alice's wedding. _**Without question**_. My friends… Steve still believes that Mab thinks he's an average Joe!

;)

I love my reviewers!: LisaPark, cameron1812, nekokairi, Xanderseye1, cHoCoLaTe-RuM, LucyBlue, Guest, K Lynx, huffle-bibin, Daisy, and Gammily!

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	12. Fighting the Current

Swaying slightly from side to side as the cab weaved through traffic, Mab thumbed her phone idly and ran her fingers along the side buttons. She hadn't heard from Steve in a few days. He had told her not to wait until it was raining to reach out again, but that seemed to remove her usual reason for calling.

David mumbled something from the other side of the cab, head lolling from side to side. "Ladies and… and gentlefuns…" He burped, and it sounded mildly distressed.

"Hey lady, if he throws up back there you owe another fifty," the cabby called irritably through the partition.

"He won't," Mab replied, glancing at her uncle to be sure, "he has a strong stomach."

"It's your money," the cabbie grumbled.

Mab scrolled through her messages; a collection of congratulations for David, a comment or two about his televised interview, regrets for missing the reception. The usual. In her perusal she saw her message to Steve from earlier in the evening when she hadn't been so emotionally exhausted and David hadn't been blackout-drunk.

_M: What do you call a duck that's also a doctor?  
M: A Quack.  
M: I had to read that terrible joke and now so have you. You're welcome._

He hadn't read it yet. It had been marked as delivered, but Mab could imagine an entire universe of ways in which he was too busy to read it. Honestly, she felt silly for sending it at all.

She'd sent it right before she noticed David drinking a few too many glasses of champagne, and laughing a little too long at someone's off-color joke. The glamor of the Laureate celebration had gotten to her, lifted the tint of smog from her world and made everything glitter at the corners.

But the dirty reality of the world drifted through the air like dust shaken from old curtains, lingering in the air only briefly to finally settle on formerly clean surfaces. That dirt gradually built up on satiny, glittery places, leaving them sad and dim once more. The beauty of her dress and David's suit wouldn't matter in the face of everything they were doing their best to hide.

But Mab smiled until her cheeks hurt. She deferred and laughed and played the gentle niece until it no longer hurt to pretend. And then, as the evening grew long and the liquor grew short, Mab poured her uncle into a cab and directed them home.

She paid the cabbie generously for keeping the ride smooth and David's dinner in his stomach. It was a challenge getting him up the short rise of steps and into the brownstone.

The rich, warm, smell of coffee grounds washed over them as Mab closed the thick security door, reminding her that she'd forgotten to close the coffee canister after the late afternoon brew. The floorboards creaked with similar warmth; a musicality reserved for well-loved homes that hadn't been overly-maintained or babied through the years.

Mab decided against turning on any lights, trying to make David's progression to bed as smooth as possible Christine's eyes gleamed like vintage light bulbs in the darkness of the upstairs landing as they started up the stairs.

"Tell th' stairs to stop… stop m'ving…" David mumbled. "I already lost m' feet, I don' wanna lose th' stairs…"

"You're doing great," Mab encouraged gently, "just keep doing what you're doing."

Christine stayed mercifully away from the landing - maybe it was the double set of sloppy feet making her a little leery, but Mab didn't care; she would take whatever grace the universe was offering. That grace extended across the landing and all the way into David's bedroom, where it swiftly expired as he sat down on his bed and looked at her with oddly mournful eyes.

"The room keeps whirly-whirling…but you're here." He stared at her as she swung his legs up onto the bed and went to work on his shoes.

"Okay, David - let's get your shoes off."

"I can do it m'self, Andy," he grumbled, swatting ineffectively at her hands from too far away.

"I'm not-" Mab fumbled with her words, unsure whether or not to correct her uncle.

"Oh, Andrea," David rambled, "I miss… I miss…"

She understood the sadness in his eyes now. Through the intensely drunken haze and a poor choice of garment on Mab's part, David was seeing his sister in her face. "Miss what?" she asked, smiling through the twist in her heart.

"When life…" he sighed, "was simpler. I miss the time before… so complicated now. I miss," he sighed wearily, "I miss when it was just me and Christine. But… don't tell Mab…" he slurred, "she'll be so sad…"

Mab pulled off his shoes once she'd loosened his laces, letting them fall unceremoniously to the floor. The hard leather hitting hardwood startled Christine, who Mab hadn't realized had been lurking in the doorway until a frantic scratching of claws on wood signaled her hasty retreat.

"Okay, David," Mab pulled the covers up over her uncle, speaking quietly, "you get some rest."

David grabbed her hand loosely, squeezing it. "I miss you, Andy."

Mab squeezed his hand back and he let go. "_Do not stand at my grave and weep,_" she whispered.

"_I am not there,"_ David finished the poem's stanza, "_I do not sleep."_ He sighed, his eyes closing as he lay back against the flattened pillows.

Mab closed the door with a heavy settling of old latches that were always maintained by someone who hated squeaky hinges. She pressed her forehead to the thick wood door, grounding herself in a way that helped none at all.

She knew, of course; how could she not? Mab was more than aware that she represented a significant burden to her uncle. She cost money - for power, for food, for the never-ending sequence of medical anomalies that carved out her existence - and she simply was not charming enough to make it worth enjoying that burden.

Mab was not her mother. She couldn't face down adversity with a smile and a powerful attitude. She shared a face and a dress size with the woman who bore her, but took her disposition from a sour father who had no interest in parenting.

She could scarcely remember his face, seen only in a few photographs from her mother's much simpler younger days. Mab pushed off of the wall, her interest drawn to holding that memory. She slipped into her room, sidling around the ever-present stacks of boxes so the flaps of cardboard didn't snag on the silk gown. Another purple beauty, another inherited story.

Not quite diving, but nothing so casual as perusing, Mab worked her way down the box of photo albums until she found one with a worn brown cover. She knew it well. Sitting down on the edge of her bed and opening it reverently, she slipped her fingers over the protective plastic over the photographs, like she could reach out and touch the memory itself.

The pictures from the art gallery could have been from another dimension with how distant they seemed. Andrea - brown of hair and eye - stood in the same dress Mab wore. Next to her, a stone-faced man with blue-green eyes Mab had stolen away. His face inscrutable, his disposition sour; Mab found most of herself in him, even as her mother had always insisted that he'd all but phoned in his part of her conception.

Andrea had given all of her glamorous life up for Mab. As she'd grown sicker and her father had left, the number of beautiful things in their homes always seemed to dwindle. They moved from large homes to increasingly small ones as the medical bills mounted. Andrea always smiled.

Mab could remember the little delights - flip through the photobook and see snippets of treasured memories, of trips to tiny zoos and indulgent restaurant nights - but that part of her life didn't feel real anymore. She didn't feel that off expectation some described with lost loved ones - she didn't think that her mother was going to walk through the door at any moment, or bring her a cup of tea, or ask if she'd remembered her medications. She was gone, and at the moment of her passing it had felt as though it was always going to be that way.

For all her sour words, for all the unkind thoughts and bitter comments she had ever said out loud or tucked deep inside, Mab felt like she deserved this somehow. This tax on her life was the cost of just being not a very good person.

She shut the photo album and set it carefully back in its box with the others she didn't have the heart to display. She left her mother and all those happy pictures together, where they belonged. She didn't want to taint them with her bitterness.

The zipper of the purple silk dress moved smoothly, as it always had, the way that only expensive garments can be expected to behave properly every time. She pulled narrow pins form her hair as the ornate style was disassembled, and counted them to be sure she'd gotten every one. Nine in, and nine out. Makeup washed away revealed her true face in the mirror, with no more pretty powders and soft lipstick to hide the tired shadows under her eyes and the sour downturn of her mouth.

Mab knew exactly what she was. It wasn't a matter of disliking herself, or feeling sorry for herself that she had to sit down briefly in the shower to take a break from standing; Mab had an incredible sense of self that told her that effort should not be expelled on the things that didn't matter anymore. She lived on borrowed time, _expensive_ borrowed time. There was no use in wasting what little time she had left on wishing; she had a debt to repay.

Providence had provided her with a way out of purgatory - to support her uncle during this beautiful lie of Laureates - and find redemption in return for securing a Dumont legacy. She would happily write for him without complaint. She would smile and laugh at parties. Mab didn't dream of being a pillar of history. She had never allowed herself the delusion of being important. Her little footprint would be washed away with the tides of death, but if she performed her part of the play to perfection she hoped her uncle would be able to build a castle made of more than sand.

Mab dressed in pajamas she fished out of the pile of clean laundry she'd never put away. She braided damp hair to keep it from tangling in the night and shoved the covers and blankets away to climb into bed. She would dream, as she often did, of a life where she was ordinary. She would dream of a life where her heart pumped solid life through her body, and not an ever-weakening stream of ache. She would dream of a beautiful, bland world where she had a bland, beautiful job and bland, wonderful children, and bland, ordinary complaints about traffic and forgotten vegetables in the fridge.

She'd accepted the reality a long time ago. It hurt every time to be reminded of her imposition, but she would retreat to that perfectly boring dream place and it would hurt less in the morning.

If Mab hadn't taken the time to plug in her phone she wouldn't have noticed the text coming in.

_S: Did you have a good week?_

She blinked at the screen. Mab's lip trembled as the carefully rehearsed and oft-repeated checklist that contained her self-loathing was interrupted by a casual question from the strangest of friends.

_M: Not even a little! _She typed, tears pricking at her eyes. She stared at it, then deleted the message without sending it. She tried again.

_M: Can you just tell me about your week instead?_

She stared at it. Still not right.

She glanced at the time at the top of her phone, tapping her thumb on the edge of the phone case. She'd seen the news; seen the flash of his uniform as he exited a Raft transport late in the evening. What was he even doing up at this hour?

Mab deleted her text. She bobbed her head a little, deciding on a bold move.

He didn't look the same on television. Of the little she'd seen in snippets here and there he looked so stern and tight-lipped; standing at attention without saying a word. A perfect soldier.

Between aisles of books, sitting on a bench in the park, he was a different person completely. Everything about the clever glint in his eyes, the playful smile, the quick comebacks, all spoke volumes about the tight box he was trying to squeeze wide shoulders in to fit. It must be unbearably painful, she thought, to maintain that level of self-discipline all the time. It must be an agony of the soul to know that you are not wanted as a man, but only as a symbol.

That kind of pain could keep you up at night.

She dialed.

"_Hello?"_

"Let me read you the worst sentence ever written by mankind," Mab said, grabbing a particular book from the pile on the floor.

He didn't ask why she was awake, and she didn't ask either. She could hear it in the air - the desperation for normalcy and a life made ordinary. And if not ordinary, for it to contain an order that made sense. This was her way of telling him she understood, even if he couldn't know how much.

She read every horrible line she could find, then she switched to the beautiful moments, and the sad ones. She shared with him the escapism of literature that, while a cold comfort, could make the nights less awful.

She read through a crack in her voice, through all the discomforts and fighting past a cough. She wanted Steve to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wasn't wasting his time reaching out to her. She still had some use left to the world. A small act, but one she could still do. She read until light snoring drifted through the connection; a reward beyond measure.

"Sweet dreams, Steve."

* * *

Morning light cut through the kitchen window in little slivers - cut off by street lamps and overgrown trees on the sidewalk. Mab danced through the light to light classical music, swaying gently so as not to burn off the light excess of energy she'd been afforded by some cosmic miracle.

A creak of flooring overhead and a weak moan of pain sent Mab to the coffee pot, checking that the magical brew was ready for the approach of a walking hangover. "Good morning, Uncle David," Mab greeted, pouring coffee into a mug as he shuffled into the kitchen. "You're feeling splendid this morning, I see."

He grunted, hand shading his eyes against the weak beams of light. "What day is it," he mumbled, "and what _year_ is it?"

Mab handed him the black coffee. "I prescribe coffee, eggs, and toast."

He sipped at it slowly, sighing reverently. "Could you just hit me really hard in the head instead? I think I'd barely notice."

"You'll be alright," Mab smiled, cracking a few eggs into a bowl and whisking them to a light froth before pouring them into a warm pan with a healthy slab of butter.

"Could you stir more quietly," David begged, wincing, "It's making my brain hurt."

"That'll teach you to drink like you're twenty."

"You wound me," David grumbled, grabbing the remote and clicking on the little counter-tv across the kitchen. He flinched as the volume came on too high for him, button-mashing until he found the mute.

David flipped through the channels and eventually landed on the news. "Wow," he breathed, "would you look at that. Three in three days."

Mab looked over at the television, reading the quick glimpse of captions that informed about yet another collection of enhanced being shipped off to the Raft. But Mab wasn't watching the reporter, she was watching the collection of figures in the background.

She stared at the screen, watching the heroes do their best to look inconspicuous in the crowd of navy blue fatigues. Her gaze was drawn to one in particular, of course, who she knew more than all the rest. She knew. Maybe it was because she knew that she could see he looked so tired.

Her hand moved on its own to retrieve her phone from her apron pocket. It moved on its own, unlocking the screen and sending a text. It moved without her needing to think about it, because she knew with her whole body in that moment that she had been too selfish to keep the truth from him for this long..

_M: Are you busy today?_

He managed to make taking his phone out of his pocket look like an action of military precision, but the twitch of a smile on his face gave him away. Something in her stomach felt quite warm to be the reason for the crack in that perfect facade.

Mab laughed to herself as she saw that Steve texted by poking the screen with his index finger like someone's grandpa.

_S: My shift is almost over._

Mab flexed her feet up and down, testing the steadiness of her balance. _Better_. She felt good. Well, not _good_, exactly; but not about to fall down at a moment's notice. Good enough.

_M: This afternoon, then. Have you been to the Met lately?_

"Mab, the eggs!" David cried just as the scent of burning food invaded her nose.

"_Shit!"_ Mab cried, grabbing the handle of the skillet and tossing the whole pan into the sink just as the eggs-turned-charcoal caught alight. She doused the pan with water, sending a foul-smelling plume of steam up into her face.

"So," she coughed, waving the steam away from her face, "still want eggs?"

* * *

A/N: You guysssss I'm super stoked for the next chapter. Like… Y'ALL HAVE NO IDEA. This chapter isn't great, but it's done now. The next one is the one I'm really excited for.

God, grant me the motivation to write more than one chapter every month. Amen.

**I love my reviewers!** Cameron1812, nekokairi, huffle-bibin, K. Lynx, NullifySky, Luna, and DanaFruit!

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	13. Home is a Foreign Place

Steve jogged down the hallway, hair still slightly damp from the shower. He was pretty sure he'd gotten the musty, watery smell of the Raft off of his skin, but it had taken a few tries. He reached for his jacket that should have been draped along the back of the sofa but it was missing. He looked around, tensing slightly as he spotted the little Russian standing casually by the elevator doors, holding his jacket hostage with a raised brow. "You're a doorman now?" Steve asked, holding out a hand.

"You're headed somewhere awful quick," Natasha commented, surrendering his jacket. "Hot date?"

"Nice to see you, too." Steve shrugged it on, but Natasha was leaning in front of the controls and blocking his exit. "My shift is over."

"Rhodey's not here yet," she shot back smoothly, "so technically you're still on-duty. Three for three."

Steve's heart sank. She was right, of course. He was already drafting an apologetic text to Mab in his head as the Russian's face changed from her usual cool detachment to a friendly warmth.

"But," Natasha said slowly, "that would only matter if I saw you leave. Which, of course, would be impossible to see from my quarters." She stepped out of his way, giving him a meaningful look. "Have fun," she crooned with a knowing smile, "see you in four days."

Steve couldn't wait until she was out of sight to punch the elevator's controls, he was running late as it was. He could almost hear Natasha shaking her head in disapproval. A thrill of excitement turned his hands clammy as the elevator descended, but a quick check of the time sent that into a surge of worry. He was running very late - too late for the bus.

Luckily, he had other transportation options. "Friday, take me down to the garage, please."

* * *

Paul worked through the gigantic packet of medical questions. He'd cleared the first and second phases of this mysterious medical trial, earning first fifty then _five hundred_ dollars. He could scarcely believe it.

The basement of Mount Sinai was as nice as the towering exterior promised it would be. There were no indications that Paul should feel anything but comfortable sitting in the waiting area with a collection of other patients, filling out the hefty binder of questions. The lights didn't flicker, the pens all wrote smoothly, and all the nurses smiled and thanked him for his participation every time he came in.

If he passed this round and continued to qualify, he would be paid _five thousand dollars_. Two months' rent for a cheek swab and a blood test. They hadn't even given him anything yet.

He paused at a question - buried in between family history and occupational hazards - that seemed more odd than the rest.

_Do you now or have you ever consumed fish oil capsules?_

Paul paused.

He couldn't remember ever taking any. Janice had tried to convince him to take a daily multivitamin, or to go vegan, or to go paleo, or to go _keto_, but he'd never strayed from his steak-and-potatoes lifestyle. He had the high blood pressure to prove it.

Paul checked the box reading 'no', and moved on.

_Five thousand dollars_.

He crossed his fingers that his luck held out.

* * *

Steve stepped through the metal detector without incident, pulling his jacket and keys out of the plastic bin as they trundled through the security screening, nodding to the ambivalent security officer who probably couldn't care less.

The museum was more expensive than he remembered. But then again, he remembered when milk cost a quarter per gallon. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he paid his admission and exchanged the receipt for a map and entered a hall filled with marble.

_M: running late. Meet you by the Temple of Dendur._

He had to double back, he realized after a moment studying the map, weaving his way through the lobby to go in the opposite direction. The Egyptian wing fascinated him, and he paused briefly in front of a little turquoise hippo that he actually recognized. _From a lifetime ago._

The Temple of Dendur, however, was something else to behold. The huge wall of glass looked out over falling autumn leaves in Central Park, tracing red in the gentle waters surrounding the stone structure. He could see why Mab had chosen this hall to find him - he could take a seat along the edge of the pool and wait, and the crowds were much thinner here than in the tight galleries. Much easier to negotiate with a wheelchair, and he'd be harder to miss.

He had no idea how long he'd need to wait for Mab. It wasn't difficult to resist the urge to wander and explore on his own - whatever he could see by himself he would certainly enjoy more with Mab. He pulled a slim book from his jacket pocket, and flipped open to a marked page.

He always carried a book now. It didn't distract much from the world, but at least reduced the number of things that required his focus. He could read, but also keep an ear out for the call of alarm, or the sound of helicopter descent, or the whisper of wheels approaching.

Listening for the faint sound of ocean waves - of leather on steel tire rims, of approaching peace - Steve idly flipped through the pages of his book. He could hear children whispering, and sneakers squeaking on polished floors. Canes tapped and creaked, and other guests folded programs this way and that to try and get their bearings.

"You know," a familiar voice came without the familiar call of the ocean, "it's sacreligious to read in an art museum."

Steve's head jerked up in surprise and the sight of her was so much more shocking that he sprang to his feet out of sheer reflex. He blinked, his mouth falling slightly slack.

Mab smiled, leaning slightly on a cane as she stood before him. "Hi."

But he couldn't say anything back. He had to check again, starting from the ground up - from her dark shoes planted on the polished floor, up long lengths of denim to the hem of a soft-looking white sweater, past the swaths of cream-colored coat and green scarf, to a delightedly wicked smile and blue-green eyes sparkling with unspoken laughter.

Her eyes; blue falling into green, as close as the first time he'd crouched down at her level in concern but found himself willing to dive into the waves and let them crash into him over and over.

Standing. _Standing. _She was tall, he realized, with her nose coming about to the level of his chin. She stood close enough for him to see the barest touch of sun on her nose, and the trace of a scar running just above her left eyebrow.

"Surprised?" she asked with a flash of teeth, the sly smile showing she knew he was. "I'm having a good day," she explained. "On good days I can get around almost normally with a cane." She lifted a black-and-yellow striped cane, the same pattern as her sporty wheelchair.

Steve found his voice after quickly clearing his throat. "That's quite the surprise."

"Yeah," she smirked, "I know." She stepped away, moving as smoothly as she might have drifted away in her chair. Light, lightly on steady feet, she beckoned him to follow.

How could he not? Her movements fascinated him as though he had never seen someone walk before. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked.

"You didn't ask," she replied, switching her coat to her other arm so the cane didn't get caught up in it.

"Are there any other questions I should have asked?" he asked.

Her lips twisted in a way that said 'yes' even before she looked away. "Come on; it's still pretty empty so we should see the inside of the Temple before it gets crowded." She ascended three steps to the entrance of the Temple and he followed. How could he not?

Stone columns twice his height guarded the narrow entrance, forcing them to walk single-file to enter the tiny entrance hall. Mab paused, staring at the carved walls with something somber in her eyes. The silence of the hall faded away inside the stone, leaving only an echo of breath to highlight their solitude there.

As Steve realized they were alone in the Temple, Mab seemed to realize it too. "I wanted to tell you, and I guess now is as good a time as any." She kept her gaze fixed on the wall as a weary sadness overtook her. "I know who you are."

The stone walls hummed with her faint words, giving them extra weight that hit Steve firmly in the chest. His first thought was to deny everything. "I don't-"

Mab looked at him and all denials died on his tongue. "Steve, there are _hundreds_ of photos of you in _dozens_ of museums, not to mention YouTube. I recognized you right away, that day on the bus. I've always known."

Steve clenched his jaw, fighting back the cold feeling in his hands and a frustration that was more painful disappointment than anger. She knew. He thought he could ready himself for what was coming next - that she was a secret SHIELD agent, or a reporter, or some other terrible possibility that explained her proximity to his life.

But that wasn't what came next.

"I hope you don't mind that I know," she said quietly, lowering her voice as a young couple entered the entrance hall and gave them a funny look as they passed into the offering hall. Mab let them pass before she continued. "You don't seem to mind that I've got… problems. I didn't say anything because I just liked spending time with you and it didn't matter to me that you're… that you're who you are. I'd really like to keep being friends, but I also wanted to be honest with you." Her smile was small, but warm. "I don't really have anything else to say. I just wanted you to know."

She looked away, glancing into the next room and its half-broken statue contained behind bulletproof glass. "If nothing else, I had a great time being your friend." She stepped away from him, entering the smaller offering hall. She left him with her words, giving him the option to leave or to follow.

Steve stood in silence as she moved on, trying to process what had just happened. The cold feeling in his hands that he had thought to be disappointment quickly turned into warmth. She knew.

She knew, and if he could take her at her word, then nothing had changed; nothing _would_ change. Or, if her actions spoke as clearly, she was giving him a free choice to walk away.

His feet followed, even as he continued to process her words. How could he not? _She knew_.

If she had known from the beginning then he didn't need to worry that she might treat him differently. That he might lose that trenchant wit that made talking with her so easy, so honest. He'd felt like he could be more than a symbol of justice, so polluted now, more than the expectations that tried to strangle his words and stifle his values. And it wasn't like she lied; he had just never asked.

He understood why she'd kept silent about it for so long. He, too, remembered what it was like to be the weak one in a pair. He remembered how incredibly valuable his friendship with Bucky had been for all those years, and how much it had hurt when Bucky left for the front. He lost the one person who'd enjoyed his company for what little he could offer.

He followed, seeing the tension in her shoulders as she braced herself for his response to her admission. She kept her eyes fixed on the small headless statue - as still as her in that moment - like her life depended on it. He could see a faint tremor in the hand resting on her cane. It hurt him a little, but he understood it. He understood bracing yourself for the possibility that you were not wanted.

"The last time I was here," he started, keeping his voice low, "people were still really excited about the egyptian hippo - the blue one. It came to the museum the same year I was born."

Mab's eyes flicked up to him, blue and green drawing in every word. The waves of her presence drew inwards, but without any kind of forceful pull. That was her way; a presence not insistent, but consistent.

Steve continued, "but my favorite was Matisse. I liked that, even as a kid, my bad paintings looked as good as something that hung in a museum."

She nodded, but still stayed silent. Her eyes held the question and a fear he recognized plainly. A deep desire to be invited into something more than just the title of 'acquaintance'.

He held out his right hand. "Steve Rogers."

That broke through the tense fear in her eyes, letting a smile spread there as she took his hand for a gentle shake. "Mab Dumont." Her hands were cold and calloused. "Nice to meet you."

She let go and suddenly Steve didn't know what to do with his hands. He shoved them into his jacket pockets as he followed her into the final room - the Sanctuary - and let her lead him around the space, lingering in spots and moving swiftly through others.

Something occurred to him and he stopped in place. "So," Steve realized, "when we sat in that diner and you asked me what I did for a living… you just let me ramble along like an idiot?"

Mab snorted, and didn't have the good grace to cover her smile. "I'll admit, it was a lot of fun seeing you try and come up with answers on the spot."

Steve shook his head, thinking of all the ways he'd nearly tripped over himself trying to keep his secret when it had turned out to be ultimately unnecessary.

Sensing the moment was right to share in return, Mab leaned in, whispering secretively. "I have absolute garbage taste in food. If it's deep-fried I'll eat it; Oreos in particular."

"You also wear socks that don't match," Steve added as she leaned away again, and Mab looked aghast.

"By choice!" she defended. "It's not like I don't notice. I just like variety."

And they were back again. It could barely be called a brief hiccup, a righting of directions with a clarifying check of a compass, and all was well. Everything was still the same.

He followed her out of the Temple with a lightness in his step that he hadn't felt in a long time. _She knew_. She knew, and nothing was going to happen. Nothing was going to change. Nothing more needed to be said, but now he had so much more to say.

If you were to glance through a room, you might miss the easy presence of Mab Dumont. She blended in with the walls and furniture, but not in a visual way. She gave off the same feeling as a heavy morning mist; silencing the busy rumble of the world.

She drew him through halls and past statues, and all the questions and things he had thought to say just didn't come to mind. He wanted to see what she saw; to know all the things she knew about this delicate world protected by glass and guards. She didn't argue as he let her lead him around the museum, her stride smooth and steady, but much slower than when she rode on wheels.

In a back gallery, mostly abandoned if the lack of famous paintings was any explanation, it was impossible to notice that she was rapidly losing energy. "Do you mind if we sit?" Steve asked, in lieu of asking if she needed a break.

"Sure," she chirped. Mab sat down on the room's singular long cushioned bench, resting her cane against the inside of her thigh. Her breathing was a little rapid for Steve's comfort; like she was already winded. "It's funny," she said between labored breaths, "I love this painting, but I don't usually get much time to really look at it."

The large painting wasn't the highlight of the room, and it wasn't particularly dramatic or colorful, and nothing about it was especially unexpected. A woman in a fitted black gown, her attention drawn away, rested a hand on a side table for balance, perhaps. "_Madame X", John Singer Sargent (1883-1884),_ was all the information a side plaque provided.

"I love art," Mab sighed. "You know exactly what it's supposed to mean when you look at it, but as soon as you look away it's just… gone." She snapped her fingers, letting the sound echo in the empty hall. "_You can touch the place of my meaning, but you can't hold it."_

"What's that from?" Steve asked. He didn't recognize the quote.

"Just something I'm working on," she answered vaguely. "Just look at it. You know what my favorite part of the whole thing is?" Mab curled her hand against the bench, just like the woman leaned against the table in the painting. "That hand. Is it desperation? Is it exhaustion? Why lean like that, and hold on in such an uncomfortable way? It's in the shadow of her, a place of unimportance, but it's where her real personality is hiding."

Steve didn't know what to say. As Mab described it, he could see that glimmer of the place of her meaning, but - just as she said - it drifted away as he looked away from the painting. Mab's cheeks flushed as she caught Steve's eye.

"Sorry, didn't mean to ramble," she muttered.

"Sargent made her a goddess," Steve said, ignoring her apology. "The gold bit over her head - it's a crescent."

"I think you're right." Mab squinted. "I never noticed that before. Huh."

"Excuse me, folks; we're getting ready to close." Steve and Mab both jumped sharply as a friendly voice called from the next room. A security guard peeking in made the low discussion suddenly feel like a very intimate moment.

"Oh my god, what time is it?" Mab cried, pulling her phone out of her pocket and dropping her coat in the process. She groaned in exasperation. "It's nearly five."

"What's wrong?" Steve asked, retrieving her coat from the floor.

"The bus is going to be so cramped," she explained, taking back her coat. "That's what I get for playing Museum Curator." She looked utterly exhausted, and the tremor in her hand as she moved to stand with her cane had nothing to do with fear this time. She wouldn't have the option of leaning back in her chair for the trip home, and a crowded bus likely meant standing the entire time.

The solution was obvious to Steve. "Can I take you home? I'm parked on the corner."

He expected her to refuse him, and he intended to insist, but it didn't come to that. She stared at him, squinting her eyes a bit, before sighing in defeat. "You know what? That would be wonderful."

Steve beamed, and Mab's lips twisted into a mock scowl. "Don't make that face like you won - I'm taking advantage of you, Steve."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, chuckling as her mock scowl turned into a real one.

Now it was his turn to lead. He drew her back through the halls, the map he'd memorized on first glance spinning in his head to provide the most direct route to the front door, to the outside, and to rest for Mab. She didn't question his path, didn't challenge the way he took her through little side rooms that opened up again in large halls.

He held her cane briefly as she shrugged on her long coat, tucking the edges of her scarf under the collar to keep them from flying away in the rush of cold air that met them on the museum's steps.

People spilled out into the streets as the museum began to close, each one touched by a stroke of a pen or the click of a camera. Steve was touched by Mab's hand at his shoulder as she laughed, pointing to a set of parents chasing a child down the stairs with a tiny jacket in hand; fighting the eternal battle of wisdom versus enthusiasm.

The best moment, that he had hoped for but couldn't have properly imagined, fell into place as Mab realized where she was being directed. "No!" she cried, her face a picture of delight as they approached the motorcycle. "_No way!_"

"You like it?" Steve asked, holding out a hand for her cane so she could take a seat. She surrendered it without a moment of resistance and swung her leg over to take a seat, beaming with an enthusiasm that made Steve's stomach flip.

"She's gorgeous!" Mab straddled the seat while Steve rigged a makeshift cane-holder between the handlebars. "What do you call this thing? The Cap-Mobile? Star-Spangled Motors?"

Steve hid a grin. "It's the Flying Avenger."

Her jaw dropped. "Oh my God - are you serious?"

"No," Steve laughed, pulling on his knots to make sure they were secure; he didn't want to lose her cane. It felt good, _so good_, to be able to invite her into those jokes. To be able to poke fun at himself, at the strange title he bore.

He sidestepped an irritated swat of her hand. "Now I don't have a helmet, so if you fall off and get hurt I'm gonna feel real bad for at _least_ ten minutes."

She puffed out her cheeks. "_Wow_. Ten whole minutes. I feel so special."

"You should; I've never taken anyone for a ride on my bike before." She scooted back in the seat as he swung his leg over to sit in front. "So hold on tight," he instructed over his shoulder, colder for not being able to see her beaming smile.

"Yessir." She wrapped her arms around his middle and interlocked her fingers, and that warmth returned. A faint scent of perfume wrapped around him; something like warm cotton and a tree-lined street that touched on a long-forgotten memory.

He shook it off, turning the engine over and feeling Mab's grip tighten as the bike roared. "Where to, ma'am?"

"Greenwich Village, sir," she answered. "Sixth avenue and Thirteenth street."

He pulled away from the curb gently, letting Mab get accustomed to the sway of the machine and the pull of wind through her hair, throwing the tail of her coat out behind them.

Just like the streets opened before his bike, he could feel new avenues branching out. She knew. _She knew. _She knew from the beginning and he could only feel relieved by it. No more clumsy excuses and veiled descriptions; he would be able to call her and describe his hellish days and sleepless nights and not worry anymore that she might find his conversations lacking.

He opened up the engine as a series of green lights allowed and Mab cried out in delight and he knew that it felt like freedom as much to her as it did for him. He felt disappointed, then, as they made the last turn onto her street and Mab pointed to her front door.

He was still swimming in the glory of the bike's freedom as they pulled up to the curb in front of the brownstone. "Wow," he said, turning off the bike's engine, "this place is nice." A short strip of old brownstones with pristine sidewalks and old trees interrupted the usual parking lots and boutique stores he expected this far downtown.

"It's rent-controlled," she said like she needed to explain. Steve wanted to tell her she didn't owe him anything like that but she moved on, slipping off the back of the bike and smoothing away the flyaways in her hair. "Thanks for the ride," Mab said, head tilted and a broad smile on her face as she stepped up onto the curb. "It was so much better than the bus."

"Any time." Steve made himself busy with releasing her cane from the series of knots holding it to his handlebars. "Are you busy this weekend?" The question slipped out without discussing it with his brain first. Although, he realized as he waited for her answer, he didn't really need to think about it.

It made perfect sense to ask, to invite her into a place where she would never ask to visit. It made all the sense in the world because she knew. _She knew. _This odd weekend that had been barreling down on him was something he was certain he could handle with grace if she agreed to stand with him.

"I don't have any plans, why?" Mab asked, tilting her head with the question. "What are we doing?"

Steve held out her yellow-and-black striped cane, his fingers buzzing as they briefly brushed against hers. "I heard there's snow in the forecast, so I thought I could take you somewhere warm with me."

* * *

A/N: This one came out so quick because I had large portions of it already written by like… chapter two. We've been moving to here, to this place where Mab and Steve find themselves finally on the same page, and now they get to dive into this intense friendship/relationship that neither of them have really prepared themselves for or insulated against. They're strangely easy to write together and I'm not complaining!

I haven't decided if the next chapter should be from Mab's POV or Steve's. There's benefits to both, obviously, but I'd like your opinions. The next chapter is going to be somewhere warm ;) I'm sure all of you only need one guess as to where they're going.

Hope you enjoyed this just MASSIVE outpouring of fluff. You ready for some more? FLUFF TIME.

REVIEWS GET THE FLUFF OUT FASTER

**REVIEW**

**YES, YOU**

I love my lone reviewer: cameron1812!


End file.
